


Sonaan

by kittycathat



Series: Witcher Crossovers and Fusions [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, Not Beta Read, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 67,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27218833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittycathat/pseuds/kittycathat
Summary: And the scrolls have foretoldof black wings in the coldThat when brothers wage warCome unfurledAfter Caingorn, Jaskier finds himself alone in a strange world and wrapped up in a prophecy that will lead him to finding his Destiny, and his Voice.ORA shameless Witcher/Skyrim crossover in which Jaskier is Dovahkiin and timelines are tied in a knot.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Witcher Crossovers and Fusions [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2038786
Comments: 40
Kudos: 111





	1. KIIN (Beginning)

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, I haven’t written fic in…probably 15 years? But for whatever reason Netflix take on The Witcher just got me into a mood to write it again, so there’s this and like six others in various stages of completeness.
> 
> No pairings, though you can read it however you want.
> 
> This is honestly self-indulgent trash, but since we’re all playing in the same sandbox, have a go.
> 
> There is a lot of Dovahzul used (and butchered) in this, but you can find translations at the bottom of each chapter. There’s also a bit of dialogue adapted/borrowed from Skyrim.
> 
> This was meant to be beta read, but after 8 weeks (this fic has been complete since August) I gave up on him and decided you can just have my mistakes. This fic is complete and will be posted roughly every other day until complete.

“Watch where you’re going!”

The angry voice and strong shoulder colliding with his own is what finally pulled Jaskier back to himself from where he’d been lost in his thoughts looking around the docks of Pont Vanis. The sea spray on the breeze blew his lengthening fringe into his eyes as he murmured an apology and stepped to the side, once again glancing around. The docks were full of a lively hustle and bustle as workers and traders went about their day, loading and unloading the cargo and passengers. The air was filled with a steady din from the conversations and shouts of the people milling about, the cry of the gulls overhead, the lapping of the waves against the docks and shore, and the creaking and clanking of barrels and goods be moved about.

Jaskier wasn't surprised to find that after the events on the mountain in Caingorn his feet had carried him to the coast. Less surprised to find himself outside the walls of the city and down on the docks.

He'd been trying to remove himself as far as he could and perhaps the opportunity had arisen to take himself even further away from-

Well. Further away.

Most of the ships appeared to be the small, nimble ships that ran the coast but one stood tall above the rest. Three masts raising higher than those around it. Clearly built for distance, not speed.

"You fine gentleman seem to be preparing for quite the journey," Jaskier remarked to the crewmen moving crates and barrels toward the ship. "And where are we off to? Novigrad? Skellige? Further south?"

The murmurs of Nilfgaard were certainly concerning, and Jaskier had heard more and more stories corroborating what the dwarf Yarpen had said on the mountain. Worrisome to be certain, but really who was one bard in the grand scheme of things?

The ship at the dock being loaded looked new, the plaque on the stern that proclaimed its name was shined to a high gloss and edged in gleaming silver.

The Black Wing.

How dramatic.

His question was met with apathetic sounds from several of the crewmen milling about but one looked up and met his eye.

"We’re not headed anywhere. This here's an expedition ship, bard. Probably a one way trip."

"And a doomed one at that," another man shouted with a laugh.

There was some grumbling at that comment from the other crew, though they didn’t seem upset. Excited about the expedition, resigned that they would almost certainly never return.

For a moment, Jaskier was taken aback by the blunt statement.

"And…and you're still going?" He asked, uncertain of the way the idea of the unknown piqued his interest. Perhaps it was the lack of something to stay for.

"Well, aye. Someone's got to be the first to know what's out there," the first man replied, with a hint of a grin. “We’ll be sailing as far west across the ocean as we can.” He stepped closer to Jaskier and lowered his voice. “But he’s not wrong, bard. There’s no telling how far the sea stretches. We may run out of provisions before we see anything other than blue sea and sky. Or perhaps madness will take us first.”

Jaskier bit his lip looking at the ship being loaded, out beyond it to the line where sea met sky, then glanced back over his shoulder to where Pont Vanis was tucked safely behind high walls, protected from the battering of the unpredictable waters. The summer capital of Kovir and Poviss was bustling behind the walls, the sounds of the city audible even against the sound of the port and the sea.

"You wouldn't, ah, have room for one more?"

The crewman who'd claimed the expedition a one way journey paused in his action and looked again at Jaskier, his expression somewhere between concern and disdain. He met Jaskier’s gaze for a long moment, as though searching for something.

"This isn't a game, son. We've made our peace that we're unlikely to return. You can't make this decision lightly."

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!_

Perhaps it _was_ a bit spur of the moment, but as far as Jaskier was concerned his future had ceased to exist the moment he had left Caingorn alone. He had no plans on where to go or what to do next. And maybe, _maybe_ he shouldn't jump aboard a (likely doomed) ship in his current emotional state, but the lure of adventure, entwined with the threat of death and heroics and heartbreak had always motivated him, from leaving his home and title in Lettenhove to pursue the life of a wandering bard to throwing his lot in with a witcher for two decades.

It felt like Destiny.

Besides, he would certainly be off Geralt's hands if he was off the Continent. His songs would live on. Geralt would live on. Calanthe wouldn’t let anything happen to Pavetta’s child. He would miss the darling girl and their yearly visit though. Would miss seeing her light up to his music on her nameday each year.

Jaskier slowly shook his head and spread his arms, his pack and lute case peeking out from behind him.

"All I have is on me, and I'm the only one I need to make peace with."

 _Liar._ He was decidedly _not_ thinking of the witcher. Of Lettenhove. Of Oxenfurt.

"So do you have room for one more or not?"

The man's expression didn't shift, the purse of his lips making it clear that he thought Jaskier was making a hasty decision, yet resigned that he wouldn’t talk the other man out of it.

"Aye, I suppose we could use another hand. Come with me and I'll take ye to the cap'n."

"Excellent! Now, I admit I've never been part of a crew before, but I'm a quick study, rest assured. And I do so know how to keep spirits up!"

Jaskier's (forced) cheerful chatter followed all the way along the dock to the ship, commenting and questioning everything in his field of vision. The Captain agreed to bring him aboard, told him the Bosun would show him the ropes and that while learning he was still expected to pull his weight on board. Jaskier forced himself to focus on the ship, on the task at hand, on the open waters stretching far before them. And not once until they had set sail and were far enough from land to see anything but open water did he dare look back again.

Weeks passed as The Black Wing sailed across the open seas and Jaskier was quick to learn, just as he promised. The man he talked to on the docks, Paluba, was in fact the Bosun of the ship and a fine teacher for a greenhorn like Jaskier. He learned knots which he tied and untied them over and over until his fingers bled. He could soon name every piece and part of the ship from the mast to the rudder and from stern to bow, sometimes mumbling them as if they were lyrics to a song. The Bosun was in some ways relentless when it came to imparting his knowledge, but the physical and mental exhaustion of learning allowed Jaskier to fall into a dreamless sleep night after night.

He learned how to travel by stars at night and by the position of the sun by day from Vrana, who spent most of his time in the crow’s nest, keeping his eyes on the horizon for a sign of anything and everything.

Jaskier was thrilled to find camaraderie with the crew, who all had their own knowledge to share with the bard.

And beyond sailing he learned. From the boisterous, failed thief Kradziej who could pick a lock in seconds (Jaskier was improving, but it took a bit of concentration) to the intimidating but gentle chef Sporak who had once worked for Queen Calanthe in Cintra and insisted salt could fix anything.

"Aye," he said one night after Jaskier had played the Fishmonger's Daughter for the crew, "I remember the betrothal feast well. Never seen anything like it all my days and I doubt I will ever again. You put on quite a show, bard. So did Pavetta though, eh?" He laughed.

He learned bawdy sailing songs and shanties, and wrote his own to pass the time. He shared stories of his adventures with Geralt, and heard the crew’s stories in kind. (Kradziej laughed so hard he cried the first time Jaskier sang his song.)

“ _A pocket he tried to pick,  
__But his fingers couldn’t stick_!  
_Across the stone the coins they scatter  
__Alerting the guard with quite the clatter_!”

“I got out of that one, though!” the once thief protested with a laugh. “Sweet talked the guards right, I did.”

He even learned to read the changes in the weather as it rolled across the endless horizon and had been doing well predicting changes in the wind.

Which is why it was such a surprise when the storm came out of nowhere. One moment fair winds and clear skies and the next tumultuous waves, wind howling seemingly from all directions, pouring rain, and lightning blazing across the sky.

Jaskier ran along the rain soaked deck with the rest of the crew, tying down ropes and securing what they could. The howl of the storm made it almost impossible to discern the orders being shouted by the Bosun, but weeks aboard the ship made the actions second nature, even if the circumstances were usually less perilous.

He'd nearly finished the tie he was working on when an unearthly sound filled the air and he looked up, expecting to see dark water and dark skies, lit only by lightning.

Instead, the world seemed to be swirling around him, the dark of the sea and sky indiscernible from each other and streaked with gleaming light in bright white and dark violet. The roaring was growing louder as shouting overlapped from all around him.

"What is that?"  
" _What in Oblivion is that?_ "

"Bard! Time's up, off the deck!"  
" _Dovahkiin, it is time."_

"Bard!"  
" _Sonaan_!"

"You need to move now!"  
" ** _DOV TIID NU_!"**

Jaskier turned to look at Paluba yelling for him, away from the world swirling, but everything around him was a vortex of black, of violet, of white light.

No. He was the white light. He tried to look at his hands, blinded by the strength of the glow burning beneath them and spreading up his arms.

The roaring was even louder now, nearer. It was above him, beneath him, within him all at once.

The dark swirl seemed to intensify and begin closing in on him.

Jaskier was falling, and falling, and falling and the world went black all at once.

And then. A voice, echoing through the abyss.

" _Dovahkiin. Hi lost daal._ "

Jaskier didn’t know how long he floated in the dark after that, but the sound of the wind and birdsong on the air forced him to open his eyes.

The black turned into a hazy gray, the cool spray into a cold wind, and blinking away the darkness in his vision, Jaskier looked blearily around at three men, all with their hands tied. His own hands were bound in front of him too. They were rolling along in the back of a wagon, surrounded by an unfamiliar landscape of mountains and snow.

What the fuck. Jaskier blinked long and slow, wondering if this was a dream.

"Hey you, you're finally awake."

At the stranger’s voice, Jaskier's eyes snapped open fully and it was only through his time tagging along with Geralt on his hunts that permitted him to assess the situation first and not immediately panic.

Nothing had changed from his first bleary glance around.

He was no longer on the ship. He was, in fact, sitting with his hands bound in the back of a cart that was rolling its way through snowy terrain, under cloudy skies patched with bright crystal blue. Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and took a deep breath, releasing it slowly, before opening his eyes again.

Still bound. Still in a cart. Fuck. He turned his head toward the voice that had greeted him.

"You were trying to cross the border right?"

Jaskier glanced at the man still speaking to him, then at the two others in the wagon. One was dressed in rags, the other in finery. The latter was _gagged_.

He didn’t hear the rest of the stranger’s words, instead electing to direct his gaze behind the man to watch the passing terrain for anything recognizable, anything to give him a hint of where he was and how he’d gotten there.

Because he certainly hadn’t been trying to cross any borders.

There was nothing to give him a clue as to where he could possibly be though, just snow covered trees and wild, mountainous terrain as far as he could see.

He breathed slowly through his nose, deep breaths in for three counts and out for three counts, while he tried to calmly sort out his thoughts.

There had been a storm on the Black Wing. He’d been on the deck, helping finish tie everything down when the thunder had turned into a roar and then-

Nothing. It was dark until he opened his eyes here, in this cart. With his hands tied tight and dressed in rags.

The cart driver's shout pulled him out of his thoughts.

"Shut up back there!"

Jaskier watched the other men continue to converse but the conversation made less and less sense and his anxiety only continued to grow.

The wagon rumbled to a stop in the middle of a stone walled village. There were others dressed like the soldier in the cart with him, all bound and waiting, looking impassively at a chopping block.

Jaskier blanched and his breath caught in his throat, still unable to form words to make any sense of this strange situation. He was only half aware as they jumped out of the cart and a woman in red and silver armor began yelling, a man by her side naming the others in the cart.

Ulfric Stormcloak, the gagged king. Ralof, the soldier who had spoken so calmly. Lokir, the horse thief.

He came back to full awareness when the thief tried to run and was brought down swiftly by a nearby guard with a well-placed arrow.

"Anyone else feel like running?" The woman asked the assembled prisoners snidely.

The man at her side was looking at Jaskier.

"Wait, you there. Step forward. Who are you?"

"J-Jaskier," his voice finally worked to deliver his name, the name he was known by, but his throat clenched at any other words or explanation.

The red-garbed soldier frowned at him.

"You picked a bad time to come home to Skyrim, kinsman."

He turned to the woman and Jaskier could only stare. Home was Lettenhove, was Oxenfurt, and roads all over The Continent. Not here. Not this cold, unwelcoming wilderness.

"I'm sorry." And perhaps worst of all, he truly sounded like he was. "At least you'll die here in your homeland. Follow the Captain, prisoner."

His homeland? This wasn’t his homeland. Jaskier had never heard of a Skyrim, didn’t understand these strange conversations about Stormcloaks and Imperials. He didn’t know how he gotten to this place or why he was about to die.

The general who had met them at the gate addressed and insulted the gagged king, with words Jaskier again only half heard, eyes fixed ahead on the chopping block.

A strange roar filled the air. One that was familiar. As though Jaskier had heard it before. Recently.

"What was that?" The soldier who had apologized for Jaskier's bad luck looked to the sky in wonder at the sound echoing off the mountains.

"It's nothing. Carry on." The general replied curtly, with a look at the captain. She gestured to a woman in plain robes nearby, who stepped forward and raised her arms to perform what sounded like a funeral rite.

One of the Stormcloaks stepped forward instead.

"For the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with."

The bound soldier took his position, taunting his executioner until the axe came down. The crowd seemed to come alive at last.

"You Imperial bastards!"

"Justice!"

"Death to the Stormcloaks!"

"As fearless in death as he was in life," the man who'd been beside him in the wagon stated firmly.

"Next, the Nord in the rags!" The woman called.

It took Jaskier a moment, and a rough shove from behind, to realize they were looking at him. They meant _him_. He was next for the block.

The same roar filled the air. Louder. Closer than before.

"There it is again. Did you hear that?"

"I said, next prisoner."

The man once again looked at Jaskier with pity in his eyes, but did as he was told.

"To the block, prisoner. Nice and easy."

What choice did Jaskier have but to follow? His entire being numb, still wondering if this wasn't some bizarre dream from drowning. A dream of dying, to let him know he'd died aboard The Black Wing.

_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._

_Well_ , Jaskier thought wryly, dropping to his knees next to the still warm body of the Stormcloak. _You've got your blessing, Geralt_.

Gingerly placing his head on the block, the blood on it seeping into his skin, Jaskier watched the headsman ready his axe. He resolved himself to watch until the bitter end, like Geralt had faced down Filavandrel at the Edge of the World once, so long ago.

A shadow passed overhead and the general's voice was suddenly shouting.

"What in Oblivion is that?"

There was a ringing in Jaskier's ears.

And inside of him, deep down, like the beat of his heart, a rumble of thunder in a chant he could almost make out if-

"-do you see?"

"Dragon!"

" _Zu'u lost daal!_ "

The shadow landed on the stone tower, Jaskier looking right up at the monstrous beast as it descended from the sky with a shout that shook the world.

A dragon. It was a dragon. But unlike Borch and the green in the cave who were both smooth lines and glittering scales and a strangely beautiful sight to behold, this dragon was the stuff of nightmares, the horror stories told to children to convince them to be behave.

Red eyes, wickedly spiked spines and scales, curving horns, claws on its wings, and a maw of serrated teeth.

Enormous, black wings, spread wide.

The dragon seemed to look right at him, laying there, waiting for his death.

And something inside Jaskier _shifted_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> I am a complete sucker for the idea that Jaskier kept tabs on Geralt’s child surprise, so yes, that’s a thing in this fic.
> 
> How I name OCs – type a word into Wiktionary and pick the translation that sounds the coolest to me. I am very creative.  
> Paluba – Deck  
> Vrana – Crow  
> Kradziej – Thief  
> Sporak – Stove  
> The salt comment is a joke because you literally need salt piles to cook anything in Skyrim.
> 
>  _Dovahkiin_ : Dragonborn  
>  _Sonaan_ : Bard  
>  _Dov tiid nu_ : Dragon Time Now (This is the Shout that pulls Jaskier to Skyrim. I made it up. That's going to happen sometimes.)  
>  _Dovahkiin. Hi lost daal_ : Dragonborn. You have returned.  
>  _Zu'u lost daal!_ : I have returned! (As far as I know Alduin doesn't actually say this at this point in the game, but fic!)
> 
> I am not rewriting Skyrim with Jaskier as Dragonborn. I actually wrote the whole opening mission that way and I hated it and found it entirely boring to rehash the game that way, but it was a great writing exercise. You’ll get to see some of Jaskier’s time in Skyrim, don’t worry.


	2. SAAN (Lost)

They were headed to Kaer Morhen, though the route they were taking was rather circuitous thanks to both their search for Yennefer and their avoidance of Nilfgaardian forces. It was for this reason they found themselves in Novigrad on the coast entirely the opposite direction of Kaedwen.

But Ciri had been delighted to see the coast again. It was hard to say no to that.

They had already procured a room for the evening at a modest inn in the city and stabled Roach nearby before they walked the winding streets down to the waterfront. There was a flurry of activity and chatter and Geralt was considering cutting their visit short due to the many people milling about. At the same time though he was listening into the gossip for any relevant rumors. A quick glance showed Ciri sneaking closer to a pair of men standing a short ways up the shore to do the same.

"Damn shame is what it."

"Are they certain? Is it the Black Wing?"

"Aye, they found part of the name plaque this mornin'."

"How many?"

"Over a dozen I hear."

Ciri had been standing right at the edge of the water poking at a shell sparkling in the low tide and pretending fairly convincingly that she wasn’t listening to the conversation. She glanced at the witcher and back at the men standing nearby looking further up the beach before deciding to cautiously approach.

"Excuse me, but what's the Black Wing?"

She was desperately hoping it had nothing to do with the black uniformed armies of Nilfgaard or the man with the winged helmet.

She wouldn’t let him touch her again. She wouldn’t. She _couldn’t_.

"Ah, lass, it's an unfortunate spot of trouble that you'd best not be knowing."

"But what _is_ it?"

The two men shared a glance, and stiffened when they saw Geralt's approach.

" _Witcher._ "

The word, barely more than a breath, was spoken not in cruelty but surprise edged almost in awe.

"Well?" Geralt asked, standing just behind Ciri. The two men shared another glance, more hesitant than the first.

"It's…not monster trouble, if that's what you're askin'. Bits and pieces of a ship that set sail from Pont Vanis last year have been washin' up all week. Looks like it got caught in a nasty storm. No tellin' when it was lost or where though."

"Hmm."

He glanced along the shoreline and realized there was indeed that the noticeable number of people around were poking at the shipwreck washing ashore. Too many people even.

With little else to be said Geralt lay a hand on Ciri's shoulder and was about to turn her away from the two men and the flotsam they'd been looking at when something in the pile of wreckage caught his attention. Releasing Ciri's shoulder and moving around the two men, Geralt’s blood went cold at what appeared to be a pegbox peeking out of the flotsam on the shore. He knelt down and moved a broken board aside to get a better look.

"You all right there, witcher?" One of the men asked nervously, peering over his shoulder.

Geralt reached out, not yet touching the item and willing his hands not to shake. He shook his head and blinked a few times, because what he was looking at couldn’t be real. It was an impossible sight and yet it remained firmly in front of his eyes, damning in its evidence.

It was a lute, largely intact save a broken neck that hung limply and barely attached to the body and strings that were snapped and little more than mush from the time spent in the water.

A lute he knew well, because he'd been there when the owner had received it.

Filavandrel's lute.

Jaskier's.

He stood abruptly, rounding on the two men.

"Tell me everything you know about that ship," he barked.

"It…it was an expedition ship. Set sail from Pont Vanis last spring with fourteen men aboard, far as I know. But that's all I know!"

"Where was it headed?"

"West," the second man shook his head. "They were traveling west to find what's beyond the sea. Those sailors know what they’re getting into when they sign up for those trips!" The man’s voice was frantic, fearful even.

The sailors maybe, but a foolish bard? Would he know he was boarding a doomed ship? Did he even have a choice?

"Who was funding it? How do I find out who was on the ship?"

"I…" the second man took a step back as Geralt stepped toward him, his face _alight_ with intensity.

"You'd have to go to Pont Vanis for that, witcher," the first man cut in with a forced sort of calm, looking nervously between Geralt and his friend. "All the arrangements would have been made there. We only know as much as we do from the gossip of the sailors up and down the coast. Like I said, wreckage has been washin' up for a few days now from here to Kovir and Poviss as far as the chatter goes."

Geralt looked at the two men a moment longer as if assessing if they had any other information before turning back to the wreckage and crouching near it. This time when he reached out he carefully pulled the lute from where it lie.

Closing his eyes, his hands wrapped tightly around the instrument, Geralt lowered his head a fraction.

There was no reason for Jaskier to have been on a ship, especially not a one-way expedition trip more likely doomed than to find anything. No reason for his lute to be here.

And yet, even with the long road they were taking to Kaer Morhen, Pont Vanis was not a stop they could afford to take. He would take the lute, get it fixed, and return it when he saw Jaskier again.

Gesturing for Ciri to follow, lute in hand, Geralt moved away from the wreckage on the shore.

Jaskier hadn't gone down with The Black Wing.

_He hadn't._

==

The innkeeper was able to point him to a luthier near the inn, but the man had taken one look at the damaged lute and sneered.

“ _Elven trash_ ,” he had said.

Geralt had pulled the lute out of his hands and left without another word, Ciri hot on his heels but looking between him and back at the shop with utter bafflement on her face.

“Geralt?”

Geralt stormed through the streets and alleyways until a cheerful tune being strummed caught his attention and he pivoted, golden eyes darting about as he tracked down the source.

_There_.

Adorned in bright red and gold, a feathered hat over long blonde hair was a bard, standing on the edge of a fountain in the nearby square.

She was talented, even Geralt could admit that, but her performance still felt _lacking_.

He approached her without pause, men and women diving out of his way with huffs of annoyance and rude words.

She caught his eyes as he approached and with a great deal of talent wrapped up the song at the end of the verse, gave a flourishing bow, and hopped down to meet him head on.

“What an unexpected audience. To what do I owe the pleasure, Sir Witcher?”

Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes. Were all bards just inclined to be so dramatic all the time?

“I’m looking for a luthier,” he said, his hand tightening on the broken lute that still had no case.

A blonde eyebrow lifted in clear surprise.

“A lute playing witcher? That’s a first for me, I admit.”

Geralt growled.

“It’s not mine. But I need it fixed.”

“Well, a few blocks back that way,” she began, gesturing the way he had just come from, “is Master Günter, near The Ivory Bell Inn.”

The inn they were staying at.

“No.”

If the bard was surprised she didn’t show it, instead she laughed.

“Yes, Master Günter can have that effect on people,” she turned around and pointed in the distance. “Do you see the tower there, where the roof looks violet? At the bottom is a door with a window pane decorated in a song. Miss Daldina is the finest luthier in the city. I trust no one else when I’m here.”

He nodded, not entirely forgetting his manners, before setting off toward the violet topped tower, slowing just enough for Ciri whenever he felt her fall too far behind.

Just as the bard had said, a plain wooden door surrounded by vines was at the base of the tower, with no sign on it, but rather had a window pane covered in black wrought iron in the shape of a musical staff and notes. Geralt had no idea if the music meant anything.

He lifted a hand, and knocked.

An audible _click_ sounded. Geralt glanced at Ciri who was glaring fiercely.

“Geralt, we don’t have _time_ -”

He pushed the door open.

A young woman with hair the color of copper looked up and immediately looked surprised.

“You’re not one of my regulars. Who are you?”

“Geralt of Rivia; can you fix this?”

He held out the lute, and if the luthier was surprised by his brusque way of speaking she seemed unbothered by it.

“Goodness, what happened to the poor thing?” she muttered, taking it from him and running her fingers over it. She peered closely at the break in the neck.

“Is it fixable?” He asked, following her closely with his gaze as she took the lute and moved about the room.

“That remains to be seen. First you must tell me what happened to it,” she said.

Ciri watched Geralt’s face shudder into an impassive mask.

The woman scoffed.

“If I fix it, I need to know what happened to make sure I don’t miss anything.”

“Hmm,” Geralt looked away and then back at her with a frown. “It was in a shipwreck.”

“A ship-? There’s no way. It would be waterlogged, damaged beyond repair after being in the water that long,” she said fingers again tracing over the body of the lute.

“It’s Elven,” Geralt growled out between clenched teeth.

“I can see that, but even Elven make doesn’t stop the rolling tides or the effects of sea water.”

“Hmm.”

“But you are luck in, Geralt of Rivia. The lute can be fixed. Return in three days time and I will have it ready for you.”

“Three days?” Ciri burst before she could contain herself. They certainly couldn’t stay in a single place, no matter how big of a city, for that long. Not with Nilfgaard in every shadow.

“Lucky for you, despite its journey the lute is near perfect apart from this break here. I have everything I need. Three days.”

“How much?” Geralt asked, as she turned to leave through a dark doorway.

The price she named had Ciri spluttering. That would be most of their coin, she knew.

Geralt nodded and steered her out of the luthier’s building.

“Geralt!” She burst as soon as the door closed behind them. “Three days? And the- the coin! How are we to be safe if-”

“Cirilla,” he said turning to face her, surprising her with the use of her given name. “This is important. And I will keep you safe.”

Ciri clenched her jaw.

“But why is it so important?”

Geralt’s whole demeanor changed with that question. For a moment his normally calm façade fell away and the look on his face was of such despair and an emotion Ciri had grown familiar with since the fall of Cintra.

_Self-loathing_.

He turned away without answering and began walking back to the inn. The rest of the stay in Novigrad they spent sequestered away, mostly in their rented room, until on the third day they returned to the luthier and exchanged coin for a beautifully polished, fully intact lute.

Geralt paused outside the door looking at the new lute case in his hands and spoke the first words Ciri heard from him in three days.

“This lute belongs to… my best friend. And he’ll be wanting it back.”

Ciri thought of the shipwreck washing ashore in smashed pieces and the conversation of the strangers there.

She knew how it felt to cling to desperate hope, and didn’t say anything at all.

==

They had just crossed the border into Kaedwen a few weeks later when Geralt stopped Roach in her tracks, his eyes darting amongst the trees on either side of the road.

Ciri huddled down, careful not to make a sound as she too scanned the trees with wide green eyes.

“Lilac,” he murmured, his chest rumbling against her back.

“And gooseberries,” another voice spoke stepping out from the tree line.

“ _Yennefer_.”

Ciri shot straight up in the saddle and looked at the woman who approached. After hearing from Geralt the woman was a sorceress she was slightly surprised to see the woman in a plain, though finely cut, and muted colored dress. Her long dark hair looked flat and dry, and her hands were carefully covered despite the pleasant air of mid-autumn.

She looked unremarkable apart from bright violet eyes that gazed back at her with unbridled curiosity.

“You’re not subtle, Geralt of Rivia,” she said again, her tone bored.

“You’re alive,” the witcher replied, sliding off of Roach and stepping close enough to touch, but keeping his arms at his sides. “I heard about Sodden. I feared- I thought-”

“As you can see, I’m quite well. And you’ve been looking for me. Are you going to introduce us?”

“Yennefer, this is Ciri – Princess Cirilla of Cintra. My- my Child Surprise,”

Yennefer’s striking eyes shot to him with clear surprise in them.

“The _Princess_?”

“Ciri, this is Yennefer of Vengerberg. Yen, Ciri is- Ciri has-, well. I was hoping you can help teach her.”

“Teach her?”

“Magic. Ciri has a form of magic and there’s no one I would trust more.”

“Hmm. We’ll see if the little lion has what it takes,” but despite her words, Yennefer was smiling at the girl.

Ciri overheard the hushed conversation that night after Yennefer had joined them on their way to Kaer Morhen for the winter. They had made camp outside of town one of the last few nice nights of the season; crisp, cool air that was refreshing rather than chilling. She had crawled into her bedroll beside the fire after dinner while Yennefer and Geralt spoke on the other side.

"So where is your bardic shadow?"

"Wouldn't know."

"Geralt."

"I don't know, Yennefer," the response was almost snapped back at the sorceress. Ciri knew her presence was likely the only reason Geralt wasn't shouting.

There was a pause before she spoke again.

"You have his lute."

"I do."

The lute, Ciri remembered, that Geralt had found washed ashore several weeks ago with the wreckage of a ship lost at sea. It had been christened with an unusual name. The Black Bird or something to that effect? She had asked why he was carrying it after having it repaired by the luthier. It took her three days to get an answer and she swore she would never ask again. She just hoped that Geralt would tell her when he was ready. She never wanted to see that look on his face again. _Self-loathing_.

"Jaskier will want it back."

It wasn't the first time she'd heard him speak of the bard, but it was far and few between that she would hear stories of him from Geralt.

Jaskier. She knew the name. Knew him. She hadn’t told the witcher yet, but she remembered a smiling face and bright blue eyes singing at her birthdays in Cintra. She remembered her mother and father and their genuinely fond smiles for his performance before they set sail for Skellige without her. She remembered her grandmother's tight smile the years after that, Eist's amusement, and Mousesack catching the bard for a whispered conversation before he left each year. He hadn't been there last year, before Cintra fell.

She didn't dare give voice to the logical explanation - why would the bard's lute be found amongst a ship's wreckage if he hadn't been on the ship?

But Ciri had seen Geralt, when he thought she was still sleeping or otherwise occupied, looking at the lute case with a look of such distress that she found herself praying he _would_ be able to return the lute someday.

" _Geralt_." This time, Yennefer spoke his name with less fond exasperation and more of an edge.

There was a long pause. Ciri had learned that Geralt would, in fact, respond if you waited long enough. And both she and Yennefer seemed to be able to get him to speak more than he usually did.

"…I haven't seen Jaskier since Caingorn, since the dragon hunt."

Ciri felt a thrill of excitement shoot through her at the mention of a dragon, but focused on the conversation at hand. Finally, she could hear more about the mysterious bard and the lute Roach carried.

"…Caingorn," Yennefer's voice was flat, "was over a year ago."

Ciri's back was to the fire, but she imagined if she peeked over that Geralt would have his head in his hands as he fought with what to say.

"After we- after you left. He-I."

There was a pregnant pause.

"I made him leave," came the whispered admission. "I told him, after two decades, that everything that went wrong was his fault and if life could give me one blessing it would take him from me."

His next words were ever more broken.

"And I think it did."

Ciri's eyes were wide open to the darkness as she strained to listen to the murmur.

"His lute. We found it washed ashore with pieces of a shipwreck. Found it in Novigrad. Some exploration out of Pont Vanis they were saying. The kind that sets sail knowing they won't come back and I can't stop wondering if he would have _ever_ gone on that ship if I hadn't driven him away.”

There was a silent pause.

"Fuck Destiny," he growled suddenly. "It mocks me every chance it gets."

"Someone, could have stolen it? The lute. Boarded the ship with it. He could have sold it," Yennefer suggested tentatively after a short pause, though Ciri could tell she had little faith in those ideas.

"Until I know for certain, I'll make sure it gets back to him. No matter how long it takes."

There was another pause and a rustle of fabric.

"Well then, I guess I'm being called upon to help you and your friend _again_." The sorceress' words would have been put-on if not for the tone of gentle teasing in them. Ciri knew she was missing more history here.

"Yen?"

"A tracking spell is quite simple, Geralt. Just because your cute little hand signs aren't capable doesn't mean an Aretuza trained mage isn't."

"…thank you."

"Don't thank me yet, I'll need a few days to gather what I need."

Ciri kept a close eye on the two of them the next few days, and when at last one morning Yennefer came into camp silent and stoic and met Geralt's gaze with a slow shake of her head did Ciri realize the bard was well and truly gone.

Geralt didn't speak a word for a week.

The lute stayed on Roach all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In addition to Netflix's map of The Continent, I mostly referenced [this one](https://i.redd.it/kja41g00w6v21.jpg) for my locations.
> 
> As mentioned in the first chapter, I am total sucker for the trope that Jaskier kept tabs on Cirilla growing up.
> 
> So timeline wise:
> 
> Caingorn happens in 1262, I'm saying late summer. Afterwards, Jaskier heads pretty much due west to Kovir and Poviss where he finds the Black Wing and hops aboard in early autumn. Approximately 8 weeks into their journey he gets sucked into Skyrim.
> 
> Ciri and Geralt's part picks up the following year in late 1263, after Cintra falls and they are reunited near Sodden. They make a winding trek across the continent to get to Kaer Morhen before winter really sets in.


	3. PRODAH (Prophecy)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a time skip, it is now summer of 1264, following Ciri's first winter in Kaer Morhen.

They were walking again. Somewhere in Redania, headed south towards Rinde and then planning to cross into Temeria to meet up with Sabrina, and another mage Sabrina was eager for Yennefer to meet. Yennefer knew from Sabrina the other mage was currently traveling through some of the smaller villages of Temeria on a personal favor for King Foltest. Sabrina was clearly delighted to have Yen and the mage meet but refused to budge on the identity. Geralt was bickering with Yennefer as they walked, leading Roach by the reins and Ciri trailing slightly behind them watching in amusement. It had been nearly a year now she'd been with Geralt, and still nobody made him react quite like the sorceress did. Well. From the stories she'd heard there had been one other, but it was clearly a sore spot for Geralt and Yennefer both - Ciri never asked about the lute after the first time when Geralt didn't speak for three days. The moment they had arrived at the keep in the Blue Mountains he had secreted it away and she hadn’t seen it since.

She opened her mouth to call out, to tease, when something in the world _shifted_ and she froze, breath catching in her throat.

Geralt keen hearing caught the sharp intake of breath and he turned to face his Child Surprise, a flash of concern crossing his stoic features.

"Ciri?"

Yennefer stopped to turn as well and she walked over to the girl, calling gently.

"Cirilla?"

Ciri's pale eyes were unfocussed, glossy and looking past the world in front of her as if at something else entirely.

Geralt felt the beginnings of what may have been panic when her mouth opened and she spoke, the words in her voice and echoing in another, overlapped with a language that the Continent no longer spoke and no longer remembered. Thunder rumbled in the air around them, a strange and frightening juxtaposition to the cloudless blue skies.

"And the Scrolls have foretold,"  
_Ahrk fin kel lost prodah._

"Of black wings in the cold,"  
_Do ved viing ko fin krah._

"That when brothers wage war come unfurled!"  
_Tol fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein._

"Alduin, Bane of Kings,"  
_Alduin, feyn do jun._

"Ancient shadow unbound,"  
_Kruziik vokun staadnau._

"With a hunger to swallow the world!"  
_Voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!_

There was a gasp and Ciri choked out one last phrase, though half of it was swallowed by gasping breath.

"Dragonborn…we pray."  
_Dovahkiin…mu draal._

And in an instant, Ciri blinked away whatever had gripped her to deliver the message and she startled to the terrified expressions of both Geralt and Yennefer staring at her.

"What…what happened? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Yennefer took a long glance between her and Geralt.

"I think you just had a vision. A prophecy," she said slowly, crouching beside Ciri. "What do you remember? Did you see anything?"

Ciri started to shake her head _no_ , but stopped. She couldn't remember the words, but she remembered a chorus of voices chanting, and-

"I saw…a man? He stood atop a mountain and… and shouted. There was power in his voice. And a dark storm rising to meet him. And I heard…there was a song I think, like chanting? I didn't understand it. I think it was trying to tell me about him though."

Yennefer rushed to rifle though Roach's saddlebags to find a notebook and quill, to write down what Ciri had seen and spoken. Geralt pondered the strange words she’d recited. There was something about them that nagged at him.

He looked down at what Yennefer had scrawled even as she turned violet eyes to him.

“Can you make any sense of this?” She asked. The witcher’s golden eyes skimmed the page.

Scrolls? What scrolls? Black wings was vague, plenty of creatures had wings and black ones at that. War was obvious, with Nilfgaard’s ongoing attack on the north. Was the timing significant though? Why would Ciri have a prophecy now, over a year after the war had begun? Alduin. A name, likely, but for a man or a monster? Something to discover later perhaps, as it was nothing Geralt had encountered before. Clearly this Alduin was coming and it was nothing good.

But that last word was strange. Dragonborn. Not just a dragon. Curious.

“Hmm,” he tucked the notebook back into the saddle bag and gestured to Ciri, lifting her up onto Roach despite her protests she was fine. “We keep going for now, it’s not safe here,” he said, guiding Roach onward down the road. Yennefer scoffed but resumed walking as well.

“Nowhere is safe,” Ciri muttered, but settled in atop the horse.

The witcher was even quieter than usual as they walked the trail, his mind turning Ciri’s prophecy over and over. There was something there. Something obvious he was missing but he couldn’t sort out _what_.

Later that night as they made camp off the road, Geralt pulled out the notebook after Ciri and Yennefer had fallen asleep and ran his fingers over the words. He read them again and again as if they would give up their secrets if he stared at them long enough.

They were almost _lyrical_ in their rhythm and for a moment, Geralt let himself long for the bard who had followed him for so long. Jaskier would have the words set to a song before anyone could say a word against it.

The nagging buzz in his brain that he was overlooking something obvious didn’t cease, even after he tucked the book away and knelt down to meditate through the night.

The words he had committed to memory just seemed to chant repeatedly and left him restless and tired come morning.

_And the scrolls have foretold_

He thanked whatever forces cared to listen that they had found Yennefer the previous fall on their way to Kaer Morhen, as Ciri had someone to talk to as they continued southwards, the summer sun high overhead.

_Of black wings in the cold_

Winter was still months off. Was that the significance of the timing? Why this winter and not the previous winter?

_That when brothers wage war come unfurled_

Black wings. Ciri had described the Nilfgaard man chasing after her as wearing a helmet with black wings.

_Alduin, bane of kings_

Perhaps Alduin was his name? Or a title? But Ciri and Yen both insisted that the Nilfgaardians were fierce, even zealot about their devotion to the Emperor, their White Flame.

_Ancient shadow unbound_

Whatever was coming was old, but how old? Would Vesemir know anything about it? Would Yennefer’s contacts at Aretuza?

_With a hunger to swallow the world_

That part was ominous and vague. Perhaps another event like the Conjunction? Another Sphere swallowing theirs. Or-

“Geralt,” Yennefer’s stern voice pulled him from his thoughts. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.”

“I’m…sorry,” he grunted, looking between the two women.

“How did he put up with you for so long,” she muttered under her breath, knowing full well the witcher would hear every word. And that stung. It really, actually stung. “I said, there’s a village just over this hill, are we planning to get a room or continue on down the road?”

He looked at Ciri who appeared in fine spirits today.

“We’ll stop for a meal and continue on, no point in wasting daylight.”

“Not even if there’s a contract?”

Geralt grunted.

They did, as he said, stop in the village for lunch and a short rest before continuing on southwards down the road. At nightfall they made camp as usual, and Geralt once more reached for the prophecy that had been written down.

“Again? There’s nothing to do for it, Geralt,” Yen sighed, looking up from where she had been explaining uses for the flowers growing nearby to Ciri. “We’ll have Sabrina and her friend look it over, but no use stewing on it.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt read the lines again. And again.

And then, for no special reason, the line that had been nagging him leapt out from the page and his eyes went wide, even as he fumbled the notebook.

“ _Fuck_.”

"Geralt?" Yennefer looked at the white-haired witcher, who had jumped to his feet and started breaking down the camp.

“Black wings,” he said, as if that answered her questions. “ _Black wings_.”

”What about it?” She asked slowly, still not rising from her seat.

“The ship, The Black Wing. _Black wings_.”

“Geralt,” Yennefer snapped, standing up and striding over to grip his arm tightly, shocked but not yielding when he snarled at her. “Calm down and _explain_.”

“The prophecy. It talks about _black wings_ coming unfurled. The ship- the ship Jas- the lute was on was called The Black Wing.”

“And that has you suddenly breaking down camp to leave _why_ exactly? Where do you plan to go?”

“Caingorn. We’re going to Caingorn.” He replied. “It was the last place Jas- if anyone knows what this _Dragonborn_ means, it’s Borch.”

Caingorn. The Dragon Mountains.

Borch Three Jackdaws, the golden dragon.

But to return to Caingorn…

“In the morning,” she said authoritatively and Geralt paused at her tone. “It’s far too late and we’ve already had one bandit skirmish.”

Geralt nodded and moved back to the fire.

Yennefer nodded too and with a gentle touch to Ciri's shoulder, sat back down. The only sound the rest of the night was the crackle of the fire as they sat in anticipatory silence until falling asleep.

The following morning, they turned northward.

==

Jaskier could feel the eyes on him, even as his heart was pounding in his chest so loudly that it was the only sound he could hear.

“You…you took its very soul.”

“What?” Jaskier looked at the guard who was staring at him in awe, his stomach rolling against whatever had just happened. The dragon had burst into flames and it had- he had-

He could feel it under his skin. Restless and eager and waiting. He wondered absently if this is how the witch had felt with her Chaos.

“I can’t believe it,” the rest of the guard were approaching and staring at him too now. Some looked ready to cry, others like they were ready to fall to their knees. Jaskier took a step back. “You’re… Dragonborn.”

 _Dovahkiin_ the dragon had rumbled when Jaskier’s clumsily aimed arrow had pierced his hide.

“What,” Jaskier asked, drawing the word out and looking around them, “is a Dragonborn?”

The guards were now murmuring excitedly amongst themselves, even Irileth, the Jarl’s unflappable housecarl looked suitably impressed, a far cry from how she’d looked at his introduction as _Jaskier the traveling bard extraordinaire_.

A cacophony of voices answered his question as each guard vied to explain.

“Skyrim’s oldest legend.”

“Skyrim’s _greatest_ legend.”

“The one who can slay dragons-”

“And steal their power.”

Jaskier’s jaw fell open in surprise.

“Steal their-?”

“That’s what you did. Isn’t it? You stole its power. Its very soul.”

“I…no,” he shook his head firmly. “Definitely not. I don’t know what happened to me.”

“Only one way to find out,” the first guard said. “Shout. That will prove it.”

“Shout?” Jaskier replied dumbly.

“A Shout,” another guard explained helpfully. “Like a dragon. Only the Dragonborn can Shout without training, like the dragons do.”

The other guards were all yelling at him too, to Shout.

“Fine, fine, yes, alright. I’ll shout and prove to you that _nothing happened_.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, tilted his head back to the sky and-

_He was looking at a curved wall, writing like claw marks that were glowing and a low chant of a song beckoning him closer to words he knew in his very soul._

**_Het nok faal vahlok deinmaar do dovahgolz ahrk aan fus do unslaad rahgol ahrk vulom._ **

And a whisper in his ear, telling him.

“ _Your Voice is raw power. Pushing aside anything, or anyone, who stands in your path._ ”

“ ** _Fus_**!”

The word rang out into the sky like a crack of thunder and Jaskier immediately clamped both hands over his mouth, eyes wide at the Shout that had just come from him.

“By the Gods.”

The murmurs of the guards were more excited now.

“That was a Shout! That was Shouting! You really _are_ Dragonborn.”

“I don’t know about all this Dragonborn business,” the stern housecarl said as she stepped closer. “But I am glad you were with us. Come, best get back to Whiterun and inform the Jarl.”

Jaskier only nodded, still covering his mouth to the amusement of the guards.

They were halfway between the watchtower and the gates to the city before Jaskier felt comfortable to release his grip on his mouth, but still not brave enough to try speaking.

As they approached the Jarl’s keep, Dragonsreach, a roll of thunder echoed through the sky. Jaskier looked up to lazy clouds floating through blue and wondered if he had really heard what he thought he had just now.

That word again.

 _Dovahkiin_.

Speaking with the Jarl inside proved it hadn’t been his imagination, though the words he spoke made little sense to Jaskier. He found that happened frequently here in Skyrim.

“You heard the summons then? The Greybeards are waiting…but why?”

“The- the dragon,” Jaskier croaked, relieved when Irileth took over.

“There was a dragon, my lord, at the western watchtower. This man helped slay it, and when he did…the men mentioned a legend. A Dragonborn?”

“You?” The Jarl scoffed incredulously. “ _You_?” The man paused but looked thoughtful. “A summons from the Greybeards. Perhaps the legends _are_ true.”

“Sorry,” Jaskier found his voice. “But what are the Greybeards?”

The Jarl barked a laugh.

“Not what, boy.” Jaskier bristled. “ _Who_. Masters of the Way of the Voice, up on the slopes of the Throat of the World. They can teach you to use your gift.”

The Jarl and his men bickered for a moment about the Greybeards, about the Dragonborn. The Jarl cut them off and addressed Jaskier directly.

“You should go High Hrothgar immediately. The summons is a great honor, and in some ways I envy you. To climb the 7,000 steps-” Jaskier repeated that line silently in horror. _7,000 steps._ “I made the pilgrimage once. It’s a very peaceful place. I wonder- no matter. Go, learn what they can teach you.”

The remainder of his days in Whiterun passed in a blur, and Jaskier was soon bone tired first from the trip to the village at the base of the mountain, Ivarstead, and then exhausted from climbing 7,000 gods forsaken stairs up a frigid mountain path.

Still, the Jarl had been right. Once he had made it past a few, admittedly terrifying, obstacles (and wasn’t he regretting not allowing the strange woman, Lydia, to accompany him) he could appreciate the quiet, the beauty, and the view from up there.

The stairs rose once more and an old stone building loomed overhead, darker than even the night sky behind it. With some measure of relief, Jaskier approached the heavy doors and pulled, the iron door opening to a warm, if dark interior.

“The turning of an age,” a gray-clad man spoke as he approached. “A Dragonborn.”

Weak at the knees, Jaskier found he could no longer hold himself up and collapsed, to his own surprise and the visible surprise of the man in front of him.

“ _Please_. What does that _mean_?”

The man placed a gentle hand on his arm, and helped him back to his feet. He guided Jaskier to a room filled with a circular table of stone the surrounded a roaring fire and coaxed him into sitting.

“Did you read the tale along the steps?”

“About the Voice and the war?” Jaskier asked, then nodded. “I did.”

The story read like poetry. He wished he’d been able to write it down.

“In our time of need, Akatosh gave mortalkind the gift of Dragon Blood. You are not the first, but whether you are the only of this age has yet to be revealed.”

“But,” Jaskier looked away from the man. It didn’t seem like he was trying to confuse or speak in riddles like the mages of The Continent, but his words were no clearer to Jaskier for it. “Who are you?”

The man laughed.

“We are the Greybeards, of the Way of the Voice. We strive to achieve balance between our inner and outer selves. As for me, you may call me Arngeir.”

“And you…summoned me?”

“And you answered. We are honored to welcome you to High Hrothgar and will do our best to teach you to use your gift in fulfillment of your destiny.”

Jaskier’s head shot up.

“Destiny? What destiny?”

==

He was standing at the door, waiting when they arrived to where Geralt had tracked him.

"You've been looking for me, Geralt of Rivia."

Even the stoic witcher couldn't help the genuine, small look of happiness at seeing Borch again.

"Borch," he greeted.

"Sorceress, this is a surprise," for as all-knowing as the dragon could seem he did seem truly surprised to see them together. His eyes fell on the young girl with them. "And it seems you've found what you were searching for at last, Sir Witcher."

"Borch, this is Ciri. Ciri, Borch Three Jackdaws," Geralt hesitated, glancing around. "Your…weapons aren't with you?"

Borch let out a bark of laughter. 

"Téa and Véa are with Saskia, my daughter. I felt this conversation was best had in private. Come, sit," he gestured them inside where a cozy fire was burning in the hearth. "Ale?"

His cheerful offer was accepted and the somber occupants around the table allowed for a pregnant pause while they drank.

Borch cleared his throat.

"So, what brings you back to Caingorn, Sir Witcher? I must admit I am surprised to find you here."

It was Yennefer who spoke, handing the notebook with the eerie words Ciri had spoken over to the golden dragon to see.

"A prophecy, we think," she said with the barest glance over to Ciri. "Geralt _\- we_ thought you may be able to tell us what a Dragonborn is? Or this Alduin?"

Borch's face went pale and his fingers slack, the small notebook tumbling to the table as he looked up at them in shock.

" _Dovahkiin._ "

With a shake of his head he picked up the notebook and read the lines written there, his expression hard to read though his eyes were wide. He ran his fingers over the page, before he placed the open notebook down and ran a shaking hand across his face.

"I…had forgotten. The old tongue has been lost to us, but the stories…I had forgotten. I didn't even believe them to be true anymore."

Borch pushed back from the table and paced the small room. Yennefer and Geralt exchanged a glance before watching him.  
"This...is not a short story. Nor is it a simple one," he began, looking over the three of them.

"We have time," Yennefer replied, leaning back in the chair, her arms crossed over her chest.

"Hmm."

Ciri just watched him pace, green eyes wide and hanging on his every word.

Borch sighed and began.

"My kind, dragons, are not originally from this Sphere. We were here before the Conjunction, but significantly changed by it. The stories we pass down say that in our home we or rather _they_ were at war with mankind, led by The Firstborn Dragon, Alduin," here he gave them a pointed look. He knew what was coming. Alduin, the ancient shadow. "He was tasked to destroy the world at the end of time, and so was named The World Eater. As time and the war went on, Alduin saw himself as equal to the Gods, a notion that upset both the Gods and a number of dragons alike, so a gift was granted to man. A few chosen amongst them who were born with the blood and soul of a dragon."

"So they could change forms, like you?" Geralt asked, knowing the golden dragon’s own ability to shapeshift.

But Borch shook his head in response.

"No, no, the _Dovahkiin_ , the Dragonborn is different. This is merely a form for me but right now, I am a man. I cannot breathe fire nor speak to your minds. But the Dragonborn is both man and dragon, and wields that power singularly."

Yennefer hesitated, but asked the dragon to clarify.

"What power is that?"

"I am not certain. I know it is part of the old tongue that has been lost to the dragons that fled here from the war. Chaos has changed my kind here as I said, but I do know that the Dragonborn, or rather _a_ Dragonborn was involved in the event that allowed a number of the dragons no longer fighting on the side of Alduin to crossover into this Sphere. Little more beyond that, I'm afraid. As for this," here Borch tapped the notebook and the words written upon it. "Our kind has passed down this story for generations. That a war would herald the return of Alduin and that of the Dragonborn. I just don’t think any of expected it to happen in this sphere."

They were all surprised when it was Ciri who spoke.

"So, Alduin is a dragon who is coming to devour the world? And the man I saw, the one shouting, is a Dragonborn?"

"Great, as if Nilfgaard throwing the Continent into war wasn't enough, now it seems they've signaled the end of days and the coming of an ancient evil dragon," Yennefer commented glibly. 

Borch was rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"He was _shouting_ …" he murmured.

"Yennefer." The scowling mage looked over at the white haired witcher. "I need to discuss this with Vesemir. Can you get us to Kaedwen?"

Yennefer was about to respond when a portal opened in the room, the occupants immediately on guard until Triss Merigold stepped through.

"Geralt, I'd like to ask for your help again to find - oh, hello." Triss looked around the group in the room before her eyes landed on Yennefer. "You're alive!"

The violet-eyed sorceress' own expression was agape as she had the same thought about her fellow mage.

"Perhaps we should take this reunion outside?" Geralt suggested as the small space had suddenly become very crowded.

Borch watched them go, the sorceress alight in a way he hadn't seen her previously as she and the other mage reconnected. It was when the door closed behind them that he went rigid, realizing there was another still in the room with him.

Turning back to the fireplace, the other first appeared transparent, form taking shape in lines of light before solidifying into dusk-colored, form fitting armor. His eyes were drawn to the crest of the bird splayed across the chest. It was distinctive, meaningful even, though Borch did not know what it meant. The presence of the man though...

This was the man from the prophecy.

The Dragonborn.

He was _here_.

"So it's true," a smooth, quiet voice spoke calmly, head tilted to one side as if assessing. " _Dovahzul_ is lost to you, _Sedvedviing_."

Sedvedviing. Three Black Birds. That was his _name_ , but-

"You- you're-"  
" _Drem Yol Lok. Zu'u laat Dovahkiin._ Ah, that is to say greetings. I am the Last Dragonborn."

"It is… an honor," Borch replied, looking at the man who was both brother to and slayer of his kind. The strange words tugged deep at his memory. It was _old_ and he felt it in his very soul when the other spoke it. And the way it was said – the _Last_ Dragonborn.

"You're missing some history," the Dragonborn commented, leaning back against the wall nearest the hearth. "Have the _dov_ here truly forgotten the Dragon Break? Their _Thu'um_? The _Tiid-Ahraan_?"

Memories tugged at Borch but he could only shake his head.

" _Krosis_ \- that is. Well, I'm sorry," the man's head dipped in regret. "But that will have to wait. I come to you with a message, _Sedvedviing_. A request. I, ah, was not expecting your guests."

The golden dragon glanced back at the door the witcher and his party had gone through and back to the prophesized hero who stood before him. He had not known the other was there until he had revealed himself and yet, he had been there long enough to hear Borch explain poorly how his ancestors had come to this world from another as the result of a war. And neither the witcher nor sorceress had noticed him either. There was no Chaos on this man, despite his obvious power. The power of a _Dovahkiin_.

"It's nothing bad," the Dragonborn continued. "With Alduin's arrival there will be others of his faction who come as well. You and yours are already dwindling in number, so I'd like to ask that you stay out of the coming conflict. Whether you hide in this form or retreat into the mountains, I only ask that you not get involved. My fight is with Alduin and Aduin alone."

"What do you mean, Dragonborn?"

There was a slump to his shoulders.

"The _Dovahkiin_ of ages past have hunted down dragons. They were known as the ultimate dragonslayers, but we are kin to the _dov._ I would rather not kill more of my _zeymah_ than necessary."

Borch thought of Saskia, Sasenthessis and the ever shrinking number of dragons and looked at the man in front of him who was born to defeat Alduin, the Firstborn Dragon and yet was trying to protect dragonkind.

"I will spread the word," Borch promised. "I cannot promise some of my brethren will not side with the World Eater, but I will let them know they have _a choice_."

He received a gracious nod in reply.

" _Lok, Thu'um_ ," and then, unexpectedly hesitated. "I did…have one other favor. If you would. More personal."

There was a flicker of memory at that hesitation. Someone else that the Dragonborn reminded him of.

"If it is within my power."

"The witcher and his party. Tell them I'll meet them in Rinde in a week's time."

Borch startled. Rinde was certainly more than a week's travel from Caingorn.

Thunder rumbled and the small dwelling shook.

" ** _Het til nu._** "

The Dragonborn was gone just as the door swung open and Borch looked over to see the mage who arrived in the portal glance around around frantically.

"That thunder, he was – that voice, was he here? The Dragonborn?"

"There's no trace of Chaos," Yennefer said looking around. Her expression said bored, but her eyes were wide.

"Magic without Chaos?" Geralt growled, his silver sword unsheathed.

Borch was still staring at the spot the Dragonborn had vanished.

Triss' curls bounced as she nodded.

"The word in the villages is that his voice is some sort of foreign magic and echoes like thunder. They call him many names – Dragonborn, Harbinger, though I’ve heard Nightingale most often. I don’t where the names all come from, but I know they are all the same man."

"Why a songbird?" Ciri asked, stepping in beside them and also looking about, though by now it was obvious the stranger was well and truly gone.

"What?" Geralt and Borch turned to her at the same time.

Ciri looked back and reiterated as if they were dumb.

"Nightingales are songbirds. They have a distinct song they sing at night, hence their name."

Geralt looked stricken.

Later, after delivering the Dragonborn's message, Borch would be struck with realization and words he distantly remembered as he turned the songbird comment over in his mind.

" _Sonaan._ "

The Dragonborn…reminded him of the _bard_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter of exposition after this one.
> 
> I'm using the Song of the Dragonborn in lieu of the actual Prophecy/Alduin's Wall because it's more dramatic. Plus, Alduin's Wall tells the signs that lead up to his return and the appearance of the Last Dragonborn, not what the Last Dragonborn will actually do.
> 
> Since the Song of the Dragonborn (Ciri's Prophecy) is written out in both Dovahzul and English I'm not going to rewrite it out here.
> 
>  _Dovahkiin_ : Dragonborn  
>  _Het nok faal vahlok deinmaar do dovahgolz ahrk aan fus do unslaad rahgol ahrk vulom_ : Here lies the keeper of dragonstone and a force of unending rage and darkness. This is the first word wall in the game, if you go to Bleak Falls first following the Main Quest.  
>  _Fus_ : Force (The first word of Unrelenting Force.)  
>  _Dovahzul_ : Dragon tongue  
>  _Sedvedviing_ : Literally, three black wings but there's no actual Dovahzul for numbers beyond one so I used a fan theory one I liked. Villentretenmerth is, in Elder, equal to Three Black Birds (Jackdaws) so this is the closest I could get in Dovahzul.  
>  _Drem yol lok_ : Literally, peace fire sky, a greeting between dragons.  
>  _Zu'u laat Dovahkiin_ : I am the Last Dragonborn.  
>  _Dov_ : Dragons  
>  _Thu'um_ : Storm Voice  
>  _Tiid-Ahraan_ : Time Wound  
>  _Krosis_ : Sorrow or regret (Used as an apology)  
>  _Zeymah_ : Brothers  
>  _Lok, Thu'um_ : Literally, sky voice but officially Sky Above, Voice Within - a greeting and goodbye for those who follow The Way of the Voice.  
>  _Het til nu_ : Literally, here there now. A Shout of my own making because fast travel is canon in Skyrim, damn it. I call it Echoed Voice. Where your Thu'um has been, hear it's echo and return. It operates the same way fast travel does in Skyrim - once you've been to an area and unlocked it, you can fast travel to it.  
>  _Sonaan_ : Bard


	4. VOKRII (Return)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the timeline bounces, but this really worked better. This chapter picks up the same time Ciri delivers her prophecy.
> 
> Flashbacks skip around. Lydia's occurs early after she becomes the player character's housecarl, Brynjolf's after the Thieves Guild questline, and Serana after Dawnguard, but before the Dragonborn questline. More dialogue borrowed/adapted from Skyrim at times.

“ ** _Daal hin gol_.**”

The words of the Shout echoed in his ears as Jaskier opened his eyes to the sight of the Continent for the first time in – how long had it been? A little over two years if he counted his time on the Black Wing he thought. At the same, he glanced around to determine where the shout had landed him. If he couldn’t sort it out, his _Echoed Voice_ could always return him to a more familiar locale. Still, Shouts were specific, this location was likely important.

His expression pinched when he realized just where and why it was important.

Posada. It had been _decades_ since he’d been back to this shithole.

Jaskier reached up to pull the hood of his Nightingale armor off, and tugged the cowl down around his neck. With a sigh, he closed his eyes and tilted his head back to enjoy the warmth of the sun.

Skyrim, for as bright as the days had been, could rarely be described as warm, even if he’d acclimated to the cold quickly enough.

With a small smile, he began walking in the direction of the town and the tavern. It was time to catch up on the rumors, and start spreading a few of his own.

Destiny had brought him here, and he had little time to waste.

The tavern was full of the local farmers and workmen same as it had always been, though it lacked any music and the murmured conversations were only accompanied by a quiet clatter of utensils scrapping, ale being poured, and the soft footsteps of the barmaid. There were no witchers to be found brooding in the corner this time, but a man in armor occupied the nostalgic spot all the same. A cloth of navy blue held dark curls away from his handsome, though scarred, face and his armor had clearly seen combat yet was well cared for.

“Ex-soldier, from Lyria,” a barmaid whispered to him when she caught where he was looking. He offered a small smile in response.

He’d shed the outermost layers of his armor in favor of a tunic and breeches in the color of a dusky sky. Soft and warm despite their dark colors, certainly less intimidating than armor, and considerably less memorable than a bard’s flashy silks. It was easier this way, to be a shadow as he navigated the current news of the Continent and started building allies to aid in his cause.

Monsters were coming to the Continent. Ones that the people were ill prepared for. He was one man, and despite his skills he couldn’t be everywhere, couldn’t save everyone. But he could hopefully give them some measure of warning to be prepared for what lay ahead. For _who_ was coming.

An ex-soldier could be of use, especially if he had left his post with honor, though even a dishonorable soldier may have valuable skills.

As Jaskier contemplated how to approach the man, the building shook as a faint thunder rolled through the air and the door burst open.

“Dragon! A dragon is attacking!”

Jaskier stood and in the resulting panic slipped out the door to where his things were stashed away.

He was unsurprised the people of Posada, farmers that they were, had hidden away and sheltered from the dragon swooping by and destroying their fields in a breath of fire. He checked his quiver and removed his bow from his back as he crept to a spot with a clear shot of the dragon.

A flash of movement in the corner of his eyes had him turning his head. The solider from the tavern was peeking out from behind a large boulder, steel at the ready, eyes tracking the sky for the dragon.

Curious. The ex-soldier was either brave, or stupid. Time would tell, but the man was cautious for now and Jaskier was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.

Still, there was no way the man could fell a dragon on his own. Not a dragon in the service of Alduin anyway. Jaskier could, but he had the experience and knowledge from Skyrim on his side. The dragon flew low overhead, right at the exposed back of the soldier.

Fuck.

The man was in trouble, and the dragon, Nahfaasfeyn from the looks of it, would should no mercy.

Jaskier let an arrow fly, catching the dragon’s attention enough for it to veer off course.

He moved out from his cover and yelled at the man.

“Get back!”

“Are you crazy? You can’t take that thing alone!”

He absolutely could, but the man didn’t know that.

“Keep moving, keep your distance, and stay away from his head!” Jaskier pierced the dragon with another arrow as it took a pass while he yelled at the man. His expression made it clear what he thought about taking orders from a stranger, but he heeded the advice to move and paced a wide, steady circuit, his eyes tracking the dragon.

“When he’s on the ground, go for the flank,” Jaskier told him darting nearby.

“Why would the beast land?” He asked, dodging away from another low pass, but Jaskier was already moving, following the dragon and taking a deep breath.

“ ** _Joor zah frul_**!”

The power of the Shout hit true and forced the dragon to the ground. The soldier ran towards the downed dragon, but the bank was too steep and he took off along the ridge to a slope easier to climb. Jaskier took the chance to address the dragon.

“ _Nahfaasfeyn_.”

“ _Tinvaak hi Dovahzul. Wo los hi?_ ”

“ _Zu’u Dovahkiin_.”

“ _Hi nok! Til los nid Dovahkiin het. Ahrk dov los sahlo._ ”

“ _Nid. Zu’u het._ _Ahrk Alduin, het_?”

“ _Hi fen dir, mey._ ”

The Shout wore off and the dragon took to the sky with a roar, but turned away from Posada, vanishing into the mountains with an echo of thunder.

“Fuck,” Jaskier’s shoulders fell as hooked his bow across his back and the soldier approached. He supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised by Nahfaasfeyn’s retreat. They had met in Skyrim, it would make no sense for him to be defeated here.

“What the fuck was that?” the soldier demanded, gesturing with his sword. Jaskier sighed, tilting his head to the sky and then looked at the man, reaching up and pulling his hood and cowl off.

“You won’t believe me.”

“Try me,” the soldier snarled, stepping in close. Jaskier’s hand twitched for the dagger sheathed at his side but met the man’s intense stare.

“That dragon? He’s a beast from another Sphere. He’s a soldier for an ancient dragon who considers it his destiny to bring about the end of the world and I’m here to stop him and send him back to where he belongs.”

The man’s eyes flickered across his face as if he could discern the truth and whatever he found searching Jaskier’s face had him exhaling harshly.

“Fuck. You’re serious. _Fuck_ ,” the soldier held out his hand. “Vojak. I was Captain of the Guard in Lyria, but after years with nothing to show for it except my accolades from the King, I decided it was time to go into the world and do something good.”

“Jaskier,” the Dragonborn returned, grasping the man’s hand firmly in greeting. Vojak’s expression was amused. “It’s a long story.”

“I have time,” Vojak offered, and it was Jaskier’s turn to look amused. The ex-Captain of the Guard grinned. “You saved my life. I owe you. Besides, if more of those things really are coming you seem like you could use a hand, so until you tire of me, I’ll follow you.”

Jaskier felt a deep pang for the friends he’d made in Skyrim who had followed and supported him across the country, and sometimes beyond it.

==

“Remind me again why you’re following me.”

“As my Thane, I’m sworn to your service. Whatever you need from me, I’m here for you, with all my life.”

“That seems like servitude.”

“The Jarl has recognized you as a man of importance, a hero even. It’s my honor to aid you however I can.”

“But would you have chosen this?”

“I’ve trained to be a housecarl all my life. I am honored to serve.”

Jaskier sighed.

“I don’t want a slave,” he muttered.

The woman, Lydia, stopped and fixed him with a look of confusion.

“I may be bound to you by honor, but I am still my own person. I will keep your house and protect you, but you do not own me.”

“You literally just said you would give your _life_ for me!” Jaskier replied, with exasperation.

“And I would go to Sovngarde with pride having done so,” she fixed him with a strange look. “The Jarl-” She stopped and bit her lip with a frown.

“Please, Lydia. Just say it,” he shook his head. “There’s nothing you can say that would offend me, believe me. I’m in way over my head at this point.”

“We all assumed you were a Nord, from Skyrim. But you know nothing of our homeland. Where are you from, really? Cyrodiil? High Rock?”

Jaskier laughed.

“I wish I even had an inkling as to what those are or where.”

“…you don’t know Tamriel?”

“Lydia,” Jaskier started, then stopped, then started again. “I …don’t know where I am. What this place is. I was born in a coastal village called Lettenhove in a country called Kerack. A small part of the Continent. And I would confidently wager none of _that_ sounds familiar to you.”

“Are you… from another Plane? Another World?”

“You arrived at that conclusion rather quickly,” Jaskier remarked in surprise.

Lydia scoffed, but there was a humor to it.

“The gates between Mundus and Oblivion were opened at the end of the last Era in Cyrodiil. I know other Planes exist and can be bridged, I’d be a fool not to consider it.”

“Huh.”

“What is it, my Thane?”

“First, you don’t have to call me that. Second, there was something similar in my home, long before I was born. The Conjunction of the Spheres. Our world was touched by others. It’s said that’s how humans and monsters arrived on the Continent.”

“Perhaps our worlds have been bridged before,” Lydia remarked and then tossed him a sly smirk. “My Thane.”

Jaskier wondered how he could feel so fond and annoyed at the same time.

==

It wasn’t long after that Vojak and Jaskier would encounter another of Alduin’s lieutenants, one who sought them out and drew their attention by trying to light a small farming village on fire. The dragon had heard the story from Nahfaasfeyn that a _Dovahkiin_ was present, one who could use his _Thu’um_ to bring them down from the skies.

Jaskier’s _Dragonrend_ did just that, and the dragon shouted in rage as Vojak pierced his hide with steel and ebony arrows broke through spiked scales. 

“Sweet Melitele, what are you?” Vojak had breathed after they felled the beast and it flaked apart into flames, his power, his _soul_ rushing to Jaskier.

The bard did his best to explain the other realm, and the legend of the Dragonborn. His blood and soul, and his power to defeat even the immortal _dov_.

Vojak listened intently before shaking his head.

“I might not know all about that, but as far as I’m concerned, I’m with you in this. Wherever you go. Whatever you need me to do.”

==

Riften wasn’t as big as Solitude or as aesthetically pleasing as Whiterun, but Jaskier enjoyed it all the same. Brynjolf was leaning against the rail beside him as they looked out over Lake Honrich.

“You seem quiet, lad.”

“Just thinking, Bryn.”

“I’d offer a coin for your thoughts, but I’d probably steal it back.”

“You could certainly try,” Jaskier shot him a look. “Of the two of us, which is Guild Master?”

The other thief laughed.

“You know I have your back, lad,” he said, clasping a hand on his shoulder. “After everything you’ve done for us. Gods, look at the Guild. I’ve never seen it so prosperous and we’ve earned a level of respect we haven’t seen in decades. I couldn’t be more proud of the Guild. Or you.”

Jaskier offered him a smile, but still didn’t answer.

“Well?”

“Just, what happens next?” Jaskier sighed. “I’m _happy_ to see the Guild doing well. But… I can’t stay, Brynjolf.”

“Jas-”

“It’s not you, it’s not the Guild. It- you know what I am.”

Brynjolf frowned but nodded.

“Dragonborn,” he murmured low. He’d seen the power of it himself. He’d even met the dragon who lived atop the Throat of the World.

Jaskier looked up at the stars beginning to sparkle in the evening sky.

“Alduin is still out there. You were with me when those strange cultists attacked. And now there’s rumors of vampire hunters returning to Skyrim. The Dawnguard? I have to face Alduin, but it feels like every time I turn around someone else needs help.”

“You could say no,” Brynjolf offered.

“Like you or Karliah gave me that choice? Like Tolfdir did in Winterhold after that business with the Eye of Magnus? Or Vilkas and the Companions after Kodlak’s death?” Jaskier sighed deeply. “My destiny is tied to Alduin, but every time I turn around I get more rooted in Skyrim.”

“Is that,” Brynjolf hesitated briefly. “A bad thing?”

“I don’t _know_. I want… I wanted to go home,” Jaskier wrenched a hand in his hair and tugged on the braids there. “But, I have a home here too. And I don’t know if I can stay.”

Brynjolf once again lay a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Whatever happens, whatever you decide, we’re with you.”

==

Another village on the road. Another dragon challenging the power of Jaskier’s _Thu’um_ for himself.

“How did you know?” Vojak asked, looking at the bones of the otherworldly monster. “That’s three already, and you’re always conveniently nearby.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“Dragons, at least dragons from Skyrim, are strangely predictable. They follow a pattern. Once it’s established it’s oddly easy to determine where they’ll be next. In this case though, they want to see for themselves if the rumors are true, if a _Dovahkiin_ is here,” he looked around, his expression distant as he recalled all he’d learned when speaking with Paarthurnax at the Throat of the World. “The will to power is in their blood. My power calls to theirs and they come to challenge my right to named _dovah_.”

“Dragonborn,” Vojak murmured. “I’ve seen it myself and I still can hardly believe. Your voice is unlike anything I’ve ever known.”

Jaskier shrugged, his face expressionless.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Vojak rushed to explain. “It’s incredible. It’s just… hard to fathom. But I’m sticking with you.”

Jaskier’s lips quirked into a small.

“Thank you. We should keep moving though, just because we know roughly where the next dragon will appear doesn’t mean we know when.”

“Go on then, Dragonborn,” Vojak grinned, wide and genuine. “I’m right behind you.”

==

“Come with me?” Jaskier grinned at the vampire who returned it in kind.

“Thought you’d never ask. You always seem to think I’m going to let you have all the fun.”

“Oh, yes, Serana,” Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Being ambushed by weird cultists across Skyrim is plenty of fun.”

Serana laughed.

“So where are we off to?”

“Solstheim.”

“The Dunmer island? Huh.”

“Have you been?”

“Oh, no,” she shrugged. “I just like to explore, always did. My parents almost never let me out of the castle, much less off the island, so I poked around there as much as I could.”

“That sounds…lonely.”

“It was. But I got used to it.”

“Is that why you’re so willing to follow me?”

Serana offered a small smile under her hood.

“A little bit. It’s…one of the reasons I wanted to come with you anyway.”

“I’m glad, either way,” Jaskier offered as they approached the bridge to Windhelm.

“Me too. But I think we have more important things to discuss right now, don’t you? Like who’s trying to kill you?”

“Who isn’t,” Jaskier muttered.

“Oh come on, just because Alduin and the dragons want you dead. And that business with the College of Winterhold. And that guy from the Thieves Guild. And that time the Dark Brotherhood kidnapped you. And my father and the clan. Huh. Come to think of it you do seem to have an excessive number of people out to kill you.”

“Wow. Thank you so much, Serana. Really. Warms my heart.”

“Always happy to help.”

They entered the city gates of Windhelm, the gray stone city coated in a layer of ice and frost the same as it always seemed to be, and Serana glanced around with a frown.

“I know we’ve been here before, but I still always expect Ysgramor’s city to be… bigger.”

“Why, Serana, is a that euphemism I hear from you?”

“Not on your life, Jas. Now, let’s get going. I’m right behind you.”

==

After the third dragon they felled together it was like a damn broke and Vojak listened quietly as Jaskier recounted his two years in Skyrim, and everything that entailed. From the execution in Helgen, to his first Shout learned at Black Falls, to Sovngarde and confronting Alduin and everything in between. The people he’d met, the monsters he’d killed, the places he’d been.

The once-Captain rarely interrupted, only asking questions to clarify here and there and by the time Jaskier had explained everything about everything the man only squared his shoulders, looked him in the eye and said one thing.

“I’m honored to be counted among your companions.”

There had been another dragon outside of Rivia following that conversation, and Vojak vanished not long after they made their way to an inn nearby. He returned with his armor shiny and clean, the same nightingale symbol splayed across Jaskier’s own armor was now proudly, beautifully painted across it in the same blue as the cloth in his hair.

The deep pang for his friends in Skyrim wasn’t so deep after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Daal hin gol_ : Literally, return (to) your land. Another created Shout, this one allowing Jaskier to return to the Continent.   
> _Nahfaasfeyn_ : Fury fear bane (Dragon names are made of three Words of Power)  
>  _Joor zah frul_ : Literally, mortal finite temporary. The Dragonrend shout, which forces dragons to land and feel mortality.  
>  _Tinvaak hi Dovahzul. Wo los hi?_ : You speak the Dragon Tongue. Who are you?  
>  _Zu'u Dovahkiin_ : I am Dragonborn.  
>  _Hi nok! Til los nid Dovahkin het. Ahrk dov los sahlo._ : You lie! There is no Dragonborn here. And the dragons are weak.  
>  _Nid. Zu'u het. Ahrk Alduin, het?_ : No, I am here. And Alduin, is he here?  
>  _Hi fen dir, mey_ : You will die, fool.  
>  _Dovah_ : Dragon
> 
> Vojak: Literally "soldier". He's my only OC in this who really matters, because I needed someone from the Continent that Jaskier could have help spread the word about Skyrim's dragons and to help get people prepared that something bad was coming their way. I picture Yusuf Tazim from Assassin's Creed Revelations when I picture Vojak.
> 
> If you go to the Western Watchtower in Skyrim right away, the first dragon you fight is a named dragon, and you just like, know it's name. So I have this theory that as Dragonborn, you just intuitively know the names of the dragons you're fighting. I'm making up bullshit to explain game mechanics. :D


	5. GRIND (Encounter)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we finally have a reunion!
> 
> Timeline note - this chapter overlaps with the previous two, and they all align toward the end.
> 
> As usual, some dialogue borrowed from Skyrim.

Eskel met him first. The stranger, the warrior with the ridiculous moniker. He wasn't a witcher, wasn't a mage, wasn't an elf, but what he _was_ , well. That was still up for debate. The villages were full of whispered excitement though, and everywhere he went it seemed like the hero had already been there and found loyal supporters.

Nightingale, they called him most often. For the crest he wore.

Harbinger, they whispered. Of what, they didn't say.

Dragonborn, they sang. That damned song was starting to spread like wildfire.

" _Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart! I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes!_ "

Eskel thought they should have better sense than to spread children's stories of a warrior named for a songbird. A man unafraid of Nilfgaardian forces and monsters alike. Who demanded no coin. A man who rarely spoke, for when he did his voice was like thunder and could tear a man to pieces.

At least, that’s what Eskel had heard.

And yet, more and more villagers were posting that banner of the nightbird cradling the moon in its wings. And more and more his eyes were catching strange carvings on buildings, on barrels, on posts. A secret code hidden in the shadows. More and more he was hearing those strange words whispered.

Nightingale. Harbinger. Dragonborn.

Eskel was exhausted and bruised from the drowners he had just dispatched, twice as many as reported, and it was that exhaustion that dulled his senses to the Nilfgaardian patrol that ambushed him. Ill prepared, he struggled to find his footing in the fight and was caught off guard even more so when they demanded information on the witcher, Geralt of Rivia. They were searching for Geralt. Of course they were. Fuck. Trying to create an opening to flee Eskel knew he was in trouble, and if reinforcements arrived he would have no chance.

And then out of nowhere, a shadow in sleek armor appeared, with his head and face covered in a hood and cloak.

" ** _Fus ro dah_**! _"_

It was in that moment Eskel knew the rumors were true - that voice truly was thunder, booming and echoing through the sky. The rumble of it sent the birds in the nearby trees flying just as surely as four of the Nilgaardian soldiers were flung back, their bodies crumpling to the ground.

 _Aard_ was powerful. This was something else entirely.

The downed men were given no reprieve as each was pierced with an arrow. Eskel felt like time slowed watching them hit in rapid succession. Through the eye, the throat, the heart, and the fourth who found his footing and turned to run collapsed after a single step, his spine severed. Those arrows had gone through the Nilfgaard armor as though it were nothing more than a cotton chemise.

A sword descending on him snapped Eskel out of his shocked surprise and he parried one of the two approaching men while kickick away another, all the while he watched three more of the Nilfgaardians attempt to engage his unexpected companion.

Attempt.

" ** _Fo krah diin_**!"

That voice of thunder again and Eskel looked over as he pulled his sword free from his second attacker to see the three Nilfgaard soldiers covered in a layer of frost, moving as if frozen to their cores. Almost casually, the stranger's sword, a beautiful blade of black, carved and faintly glowing, tore through two in a single swipe, while the third was grasped by his shoulder and the sword brought down with tremendous force at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, effortlessly pulled free as the body fell to the ground.

Two more rushed from behind and Eskel swore the stranger read his look with ease because he nodded before they moved as one. Eskel’s sword met the Nilfgaardian’s before making the Sign for _Igni_ and the man collapsed screaming as he was engulfed by fire.

Beside him, the stranger caught the blade of the second soldier at the same time as Eskel, and the witcher noticed a faint glow in his hand before blood splattered from his neck, as though run through with a blade.

The stranger looked around the bodies strewn about before turning to face him.

The nightingale symbol was splayed across the chest of his strange armor. It was dark, though not quite black, and covered him head to toe, with only his fingers left bare. Even his face was covered by hood and cowl, deep shadow blocking his eyes from view.

There was recognition in his easy stance though if the tilt of his head was anything to go by, and his voice when he spoke, was soft compared to the thunder of his earlier shouting.

"A witcher."  
It was not spoken with disdain or fear, but an almost bemusement, tinged with sadness.

"I, yes?" Eskel hadn't meant for it come out as a question. "Eskel, School of the Wolf."

He bit back the rest of the ridiculous urge to introduce himself further, to justify himself in front of this man, this _story_ who had just dropped eight Nilfgaard soldiers with embarrassing ease. Who had a voice that couldn't be anything but magic. Eskel fought down his shocked reaction as he realized the medallion hadn’t responded at all. Fuck.  
The man just gave an amused hum.

"Give my regards to your brother, will you?"

"My - wait!" Eskel reached out, but the man gave another shout- no a whisper. A distant rumble this time rather than the crack of thunder before.

" ** _Feim zii gron._** "

The man vanished.

"Fuck."

Eskel looked around at the remains of the ambush. Knowing he would need to find this man again, that this was _important,_ Eskel scented the air.

Blood, steel, death - of course.

But there, underneath - A storm, wild and fierce. Fire and ice in equal measure. And just a hint of - chamomile?

==

Triss was next. It was a smaller village outside of Vizima, and she was here on behalf of King Foltest. The sovereign wasn't concerned with any uprisings despite the word spreading and many villages flying the strange nightingale banner in support of a strange man. He was growing curious though, about this warrior. He'd written off the witcher who had saved his daughter years before, and he swore he wouldn't make a mistake like that again.

Even this hamlet, with hardly more than its dirty little tavern and its makeshift inn (really, just a few beds in the attic of said tavern) flew the banner.

More interesting still was the man in the town square giving what appeared to be archery lessons to the villagers and nearby farmers.

"Feet shoulder width apart!" He called as he walked the row of a half dozen shooters facing across the makeshift range to the targets set up on the other side. And it wasn’t all young men holding bows, no. A white-haired woman with a crooked spine but steady hands and a young girl who appeared to be a milk maid with a look of fierce concentration stood among them. A small crowd was watching behind them, perhaps having already taken or waiting for a turn, and sitting on a step nearby another man was fletching a vast number of arrows with deft hands. He was humming a tune that Triss didn’t recognize, but felt familiar.

Triss approached to watch as well.

"Keep your bow facing down, aye that includes you Jakob!" He hollered at one man who was trying to aim and ready an arrow at the same time, pulling back on the string before the arrow was even nocked. “Your bow _stays_ down until your arrow is placed on the rest and nocked.”

He continued down the line, making adjustments to feet, and tilting bows _just so_.

His hair was tied out of his face by a piece of fabric, dyed in a deep navy blue. Dark hair was curling over the top and sides. A scar ran down one side of his face. The rest of his outfit was of worn, but obviously well cared for armor, and proudly painted across his chest in that same navy blue was the bird, its spread wings cradling the moon. This was not some roughshod painting either, no. Someone had taken the time to paint it with detail.

Triss made a sound of confusion. This man, who looked like a common sellsword, could he be the rumored Nightingale? It seemed possible, though the rumors spoke of a man armored in the color of night. A silent shadow with a voice of thunder.

A sound of amusement came from nearby and she turned to see the man sitting on the step with a smile curling his lips. It was a nice look on a face that was remarkably gentle. Bright blue eyes met her own gaze and the smile widened further.

"Vojak is a good teacher. He was a captain of the guard in Lyria for many years before he resigned his post," the man fletching arrows commented calmly, his work uninterrupted as he spoke to her. "To travel and do good in the world, he says."

Triss looked over the stranger, though really everyone in town was a stranger to her. He wore no armor, though his boots looked sturdy and worn. His pants and shirt were both somewhere between black and gray, more like dusk than a moonless night. His shirtsleeves were pushed to his elbows, forearms flexing with lean, strong muscle, and his hands were visibly callused. His motions were quick and efficient as he worked.

Those bright blue eyes were framed by long dark hair that looked soft and clean, surprising in such a place. He had an odd number of braids pulling it partially away from his face. Two on the right, pulled back and meeting a third on the left, and two more on the left that hung free along his face. They felt deliberate.

"Why is he teaching them though?" Was the hunting going poorly this season? More rumors of Nilfgaard pushing north? A need to fight back monsters with the dwindling number of available witchers?

A hum met her question and she again met a flash of blue. There was something _knowing_ in that gaze.

"Rumors I suppose," the man finally said. "Something is coming. Something unknown, or perhaps forgotten."

He shook his head, the loose braids swaying ever so slightly with the movement. Triss realized that each of the five braids was done in a different plait. They were definitely deliberate. He put the arrow he'd finished into one of the nearby quivers and stood in a graceful move.

He was tall and lithe but could not be mistaken for skinny nor small. The few steps it took to close the distance between them looked like the steps of a predator, an odd contrast to how casual his stance was.

"How do you prepare for something like that?" He asked. This close, Triss could see those blue eyes held a deep wisdom and a fire in them. For all that she couldn't sense chaos on this man there was something powerful in his every word.

She shook her head.

"I don't know."

Another small smile.

"Nor do I, but if you’re following the rumors," He gave a rueful grin and softly sang a line from the tune that every bard in Temeria seemed to have learned in a matter of days. "… _believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes._ "

That word again, that title. Dragonborn. Harbinger. Nightingale. All names for the same man connected to a number of rumors that grew with each passing day.

She looked back at the sellsword again and her doubt only grew that Vojak was the stranger she was searching for. There was a distant roll of thunder and Triss glanced with confusion at the clear blue sky.

"What does that even mean, 'Dragonborn'? Do you think whatever is coming will be draconic then-"

Triss' question cut off as she looked around in surprise.

The fletcher was gone, though a dozen full quivers remained on the step.

"Now, relax. Take a deep breath and as you let it out: release!" Vojak's command had her turn back to the archery training, even as she continued to scan the crowd for the blue eyed man.

Every single arrow met its target, though some with greater success than others.

"Well done, now do it again. A coin for each of you who can hit the bullseye before you're out of arrows." Triss absently noted each archer had a quiver with _maybe_ a dozen arrows in it.

The sellsword, Vojak, caught her eye before glancing at the empty step. Triss approached him at his gesture.

"Gone again, I see. Ah well, I'll have to catch up with him later."

"The fletcher? I apologize, he left so suddenly I didn't catch which way he went."

The mercenary laughed, and it was such a genuine, honest sound that Triss was startled by it.

"No miss, you wouldn't. It's like catching a shadow and he's flighty as his name implies."

Triss' heart was pounding in her chest at the realization.

"He's-?" She cut herself off blinking. That hadn't even crossed her mind. Hadn't even registered that someone so approachable could be the rumored warrior.

Vojak frowned.

"Aye, the Nightingale. Or Dragonborn. He doesn’t really have a preference."

"Him? _Him?_ "

"You…didn't know." 

"But he was-"

Kind. Gentle. Friendly.

Powerful. Skilled. Dangerous.

Vojak smiled, the twist of his lips twisting the scar on his face.

"The rumors you’ve heard couldn't be further from the truth," he tilted his face towards the sky. "And yet, entirely true."

And _oh_ the rumors Triss had heard. Of a man who moved like a shadow. Who could destroy with his voice alone. Of weapons summoned from nothing. Arrows that never missed. Wild animals that obeyed command. Terror at mere words. Of fire and ice and _how_ could they all be true when each seemed less possible than the one before?

"He's…a good man. Sworn by his honor," Vojak offered at her look of distress.

"Is that why you follow him?" Triss asked, with honest curiosity.

"He saved my life. And he knows what's coming. Now we’re just trying to help as many get through it as possible. For that, I'll follow him to the very end," he gave a polite nod. "I need to check on my lesson now I believe."

"Wait! Do _you_ know what's going on? He wasn’t exactly forthcoming."

He looked at her, his smile dropping into something thoughtful, pensive and when spoke it came out almost like a chant.

"Bane of kings, ancient shadow unbound, with a hunger to swallow the world. A monster, miss. One you’ve never seen before."

Triss knew she needed to get back to Vizima, and more importantly, she needed to speak to the best monster hunter she knew as soon as possible.

With a final glance at the training field Triss found she was unsurprised that every one of Vojak's village students had earned their coin.

==

Lambert didn't even realize. Wouldn't think on the odd encounter in the tavern until the others beat it over his head and understanding set in.

He'd killed the wyvern he’d taken the contract for. The weirdest fucking wyvern hunt he'd ever been on if he spent enough time thinking about it. It had just…stood there. As if under a spell the monster had just … sat there. Only after Lambert had taken the third swing did it let out an unearthly shriek and finally retaliate and at that point, it was too late for it.

Fucking weird.

He'd taken the head back to the tavern to collect his coin and an ale when it started. The eyes following his every move. The malcontent rumblings. It wasn't until he'd sat down with his drink at the bar that the comments became pointed.

"Mutant freak."

A man shoved past him as he drank, causing him to sputter and choke briefly. Slamming the tankard down on the counter, Lambert stood to face the man who'd shoved him, now flanked by a half dozen other men. They were crowding around him now, an arc of angry bodies between him and the door.

Fucking shit.

Lambert growled and took a step forward even as more men stood up and placed themselves between him and the only means of escape. It was then that he felt, more than saw someone move in behind him.

Thunder roared outside, the building creaking at the intensity. Odd, Lambert acknowledged distantly, it hadn't looked like it was going to storm.

A sneeze of nonsense came behind him, low and rumbling.

" ** _Faas ru maar_**."

“Bless you,” Lambert returned absently.

The witcher would swear there was a glint of red, just a flicker of the flames in the hearth no doubt, and the dozen or so men who had placed themselves between him and the door were suddenly looking at him with sheer terror in their eyes. No, he noted, they were looking behind him. Lambert didn't turn to look though, whomever was behind him wasn't pulling on his senses with any indication of threat or danger. No, the greatest sense he got from whomever was there was amusement.

Lambert took a step forward with another growl, and it seemed that was the final straw as the gathered group turned tail and fled, knocking each other over in their haste to get out of the building and through that door as quickly as possible.

There was a brief moment of silence as the door swung shut behind the last fleeing man before the din of the tavern slowly started up again. As the noise returned to normal, Lambert finally turned to the other behind him. And promptly scowled.

This man was no warrior. He was all long limbs and his unmarred face had a small smile spread across it. His hair, long, dark, oddly braided, was soft and clean in appearance. His outfit, unremarkable, in shades of black and gray, was simple at best. Utilitarian even.

Lambert opened his mouth to scoff, to insult, to yell perhaps - but the other man simply smiled more genuinely and with a nod, stepped around the witcher and out of the tavern.

Still scowling, he sat back down and picked up his ale.

It wasn't until much later that Lambert would realize that the man's steps had made no sound.

==

They hadn't made it to Kaedwen. Not wanting to miss the opportunity to meet the man of Ciri's prophecy, Yennefer had opened a portal to Rinde and the odd traveling party of two sorceresses, a witcher, and the young princess stepped through. Borch, clearly off balance after encountering the Dragonborn, had wished them well but had refused to join them and admitted he would be going away for a while. It would be safer that way, for himself and his daughter, to not be involved or around when whatever was coming finally arrived.

Rinde was bittersweet for Geralt and Yennefer both. Ciri and Triss knew there was a story, but neither asked beyond Yennefer's brief explanation of "This is where we met."

Rinde was bustling and, apart from Triss, it was the first time they saw the strange effect the Nightingale had wherever he had been. The banner seemed as though it were hung on every street they walked.

"Why not a dragon though?" Ciri asked, holding a cloak emblazoned with the bird on the back in shimmering black thread, cradling a silver moon.

"Hmm," Triss hummed taking the cloak to look at the craftsmanship of the embroidery, "Perhaps because of Alduin?"

That would make sense, Ciri thought. If Alduin was a dragon it could be confusing to fly a banner with his likeness on it.

And there was that song.

"I tell you, I tell you - the Dragonborn comes!"

Every bard across the city, every night without fail sang it. Repeatedly. It was still three nights to the day Borch had told them the Dragonborn would meet them there when a voice Geralt knew well couldn't take it anymore.

"Would you stop with this fucking song already?!"

Geralt and Triss were sitting in a corner table, Yen and Ciri having already retired to their rooms for the night, and Geralt’s head shot up and searched out the owner of the voice at the shout.

"Lambert?"

The other witcher turned around, eyes widening fractionally for a moment before a shit-eating grin spread across his face. He simultaneously twisted and smacked the person next to him. The figure beside him was just as familiar.

"Eskel?"

The two witchers were out of their seats and on their way over before Geralt could make sense of the fact that Eskel was here with Lambert. Or even the fact that Lambert was here.

"The White Wolf!" Lambert crowed, dropping down beside him. His good humor vanished upon locking eyes with Triss. "Merigold."

"Witcher."

"Geralt, what brings you to Rinde?" Eskel asked instead, also taking a seat.

Geralt took a cursory glance around the tavern the before leaning in.

"What have you heard about the Dragonborn?"

Lambert scoffed, something about that fucking song, but Eskel's eyes gave him away as he drew a slow breath and looked away.

"Eskel," Geralt didn't mean to growl, but this was important.

"I've met him," Eskel admitted and even Triss looked interested. Lambert merely scoffed again, busying himself with his ale. "A few weeks ago. Sodden."

"Nilfgaard patrol got the drop on him and the little bird saved him with his song," Lambert jeered. "So now we're tracking his ass because Eskel wants to say thanks."

"With his voice, you horse's ass," Eskel snapped back, before looking back to Geralt. "He shouted and I don't know it was like magic, but."

"But there was no Chaos," Triss commented. "Was there thunder?"

Lambert choked, ale spraying slightly. Geralt fought the urge to roll his eyes.

Eskel looked at Triss in surprise.

"How did you know?"

"I met him too, a few weeks ago in Temeria. From what I was able to tell he's been all over since the rumors started. It’s like he just appeared out of nowhere not long before I met him, but the first sighting was in Posada."

"So he can travel quickly, almost like a mage," Geralt mused. Sodden, Temeria, and Caingorn in rapid succession. And able to tell Borch exactly where he would be and when. First in Posada. Why Posada? There was practically nothing there apart Dol Blothanna and the human-owned farmlands. And if the rumors of him had only started with his arrival a few weeks prior, that would have been about the time when Ciri-

"What's this about thunder?" Lambert cut in.

Eskel sighed, a deep, resigned sound.

"I told you. When he spoke, when he shouted there was always thunder in the air."

Lambert looked remarkably thoughtful.

"Even when the skies were clear?" He asked lowly.

"There wasn't a cloud in the sky the day I met him," Triss confirmed. "But thunder just the same."

Lambert shot a nasty look at Triss but didn't reply, instead busied himself by taking another drink of what was surely a near empty tankard.

"Lambert."

"Fine, fuck,” he put the tankard (definitely empty) down heavily on the table with a little too much force. “I'm pretty sure I met him last week, before I ran into you tracking him through Temeria. Some crappy tavern in Brugge. Little shit doesn't look like much."

Eskel looked confused and now it was Triss who was fighting not to roll her eyes.

"I only saw him in that odd armor," Eskel said. "Didn't really see much."

Lambert snorted.

"Skinny. Dark hair. Weird braids. Blue eyes. Looks more like a squishy noble than a legendary hero," he went to take another drink, frowning when he realized it really was empty. "But…there's something about him. Scared a dozen men out of a tavern with his weird thunder magic."

Eskel side-eyed him.

"You didn't tell me that."

"Yeah, well. Didn't think it was that fucking interesting that a bunch of shitlings got scared of a sneeze and ran."

Geralt could only wonder about the man who had so clearly left an impression on those who crossed paths with him. Borch and Triss. Lambert and Eskel. Would his own meeting be as memorable?

Three days later, Geralt would curse himself for wondering.

Ciri was bouncing with excitement, chatting away as they walked the streets of Rinde. The Dragonborn hadn't exactly given them details on when and where to meet him. They had split up; Yennefer and Triss under the guise of purchasing ingredients and whatever else it was mages did. Lambert with Eskel, lest anyone else have to try and up with his asshole of a brother. Geralt and Ciri of course, just wandering the streets, Ciri looking at the wares.

"What do you suppose this is?" She asked looking up at Geralt. He peered around her to see a symbol carved in the wood of a support post. A circle, bisected down the middle with a line and a triangle attached below. It was odd, but deliberate.

"Hmm," Geralt had no answer but made a mental note of it just the same.

Geralt had turned to move when a horrible sound filled the air. Familiar, but different. His eyes snapped upwards as a dark shadow passed by above him with that deafening shriek.

Dragon. His mind supplied helpfully.

The shadow landed on a roof a few streets over, opened its maw wide, and roared fire into the street below.

" ** _Yol_**!"

Chaos exploded.

Not the magical conduit, but panic and terror as the citizens of Rinde moved through the streets; it was only when the crowd started coming directly towards them that Geralt realized it wasn't chaos around them, but an oddly well planned response. Geralt grabbed Ciri and moved her out of the way just in time to see a man in armor (and that damned Nightingale crest), and a woman (with a quiver and finely made bow on her back) open a hidden door, just behind the pillar Ciri had been inspecting.

"This way, into the catacombs!" The woman called as the crowd began filing below. Even as the majority of people on the street were moving to the once hidden entrance, others were retrieving bows and quivers and moving away. Towards the attacker, the dragon. Still holding Ciri tightly against himself in the alcove he'd ducked into, he watched the woman nod at the armored man. He continued to help people through the door even as she pushed through the crowd, retrieving her bow and nocking an arrow as she went, moving towards the dragon.

They were prepared for this. The Dragonborn had warned them.

The dragon took to the skies again, breathing fire with that thunderous shout, circling around in the sky over Rinde before diving again. Geralt stepped out of the alcove to look as it stopped again up the street from them. He moved Ciri behind him as he looked at the beast.

Where Villentretenmerth had been sleek and smooth, this dragon was truly monstrous. Pale, ashen brown in color, it was larger than the gold dragon and covered nose to tail in wicked looking spiked spines. Taking it in, Geralt felt a tug of indecision. He had sworn not to slay dragons, but this? This was a monster that had attacked unproved. Without a doubt one of Alduin's ilk.

Geralt didn't realize he'd drawn his steel sword until he'd turned to Ciri.

"I'm coming with you," the young teen said fiercely.

"Ciri-" He began.

"No, I'll keep my distance, but I'm coming with you."

Geralt made a face of frustration but knew she'd follow.

"Stay out of range - if I tell you to move, you move."

She nodded once in acquiescence and they darted out of the alcove together as the dragon once again took to the skies and swept around. Geralt followed its movement until - there. It looked like it was making for the square nearby. As they ran the length of the road he realized the sheer number of townspeople who'd taken up archery was for this moment.

"Slay it! Slay the dragon!"

Turning into the square, Geralt was quick to spot both Lambert and Eskel sheltering behind rubble left in the dragon's wake, eyes searching for an opening and crossbows at the ready. Yennefer had seen him enter the square and was hurrying over to him.

"Geralt!"

"Yen!"

Fire burst forth from the dragon, aimed toward them and Yennefer’s eyes went wide as she threw her hands up, Chaos swirling, and shielded Geralt and Ciri from the dragon’s flame. The fire cut out as the dragon roared again and snapped at the men and women closest to him.

A voice called out from nearby.

"Keep your distance from its head!"

The warning came just a moment too late, and they could only watch in horror as the dragon clamped it's maw around the upper half of a man who had moved too close and lifted his slack body off the ground. It shook the dead man once, twice, before letting the body go flying to the side with a roar of triumph.

A roar cut short in crack of thunder just as Geralt readied his blade to draw the beast’s attention.

" ** _Joor zah frul_**!"

The dragon was hit by an eerie blue glow, one that seemed to force it to remain where it was as though its wings were weighed down. The beast lifted its head to look at the source of the shout. Geralt followed its line of sight to a man in sleek, dark armor walking into the square, bow drawn. He moved without any hesitancy, taking swift, even steps as he steadily loosed arrow after arrow into the dragon. A voice of thunder. Armor like a night sky. It was him. This was the man.

" _Dovahkiin_ ," the beast snarled, picking him out of the crowd.

" _Gromidtoor_ ," the man spat back, his voice rolling with thunder. He didn't lower his bow, but did not fire the nocked arrow. The other archers maintained their aim, but did not fire. They all waited to see what the Dragonborn would do. " _Zu'u tovit Alduin_."

The dragon made a sound like laughter.

The strange light keeping it pinned faded and with a flap of its wings was once again aloft, but only for a moment.

" ** _Joor zah frul_**!"

The shout was harder this time, more forceful, and the dragon crashed back to the ground, breathing fire at those closest to him.

"Alduin!" the man repeated, demanded.

The dragon spat fire towards him in response.

" ** _Wuld nah kest_**!"

The Dragonborn vanished from view, reappearing behind the dragon, sending another rapid volley of arrows into its side.

" _Fen hi aak_?"

" _Nid. Ni tiid, mal gein. Vah, rok fen bo._ "

That strange sound of laughter again, and the dragon twisted, his tail catching the man in a glancing blow. The next arrow hit the dragon in the neck. He didn't nock another arrow, instead standing to face the dragon.

An inhale of breath,

" ** _Yol toor shul_**!"

An exhale of fire.

The dragon roared, staggered, and after a tense moment of eerie silence in the square it collapsed at the feet of the Dragonborn. The head of the monster was close enough to his feet that he could reach out and touch it, if he desired.

"It's really dead then?" Someone murmured nearby, as the gathered crowd shifted nervously, and started creeping forward for a better look.

Yennefer was the first of their group to move, second in the square only to a man in old armor and a navy band of cloth in his hair who moved toward the Dragonborn. She froze in her tracks when the dragon began to glow, though the man continued on undeterred.

Geralt reached out to tug her back, away from the danger, but could only find himself watching as the dragon seemed to alight from within, burning and flaking apart into a streak of golden light and a howling rush of wind that twisted around and slammed right into the Dragonborn. Geralt suspected the flinch was warranted.

Only the bones of the dragon remained when the light cleared.

Yennefer turned violet eyes to Geralt.

"What the fuck."

Geralt's eyes were riveted on the dragon bones and then up at the man from Ciri's prophecy, barely noticing when Lambert and Eskel joined them.

"Did he fucking yell at that thing to death?" He glanced over the group. "Where's Merigold?"

"She was helping the evacuate people off the streets," Yennefer replied rolling her eyes at him. "Right."

Squaring her shoulder she strode across the square, doing her best to ignore the large dragon skeleton she was walking past and approached the man, Ciri and the Witchers following behind.

She opened her mouth, ready to speak when-

"You're hurt," she cursed herself immediately. But the man was pressing red streaked fingers against his side, almost unconsciously. Right, the dragon had hit him with its tail. "I can-"

She moved to offer help, calling upon Chaos, but the man held up his hand to stop her. He twisted it towards himself, a golden glow surrounding the curled fingers and with a sound like the tinkle of chimes the gold light encompassed the wound. The red smear remained, but his posture straightened and his hand relaxed back to his side. She still didn't detect any Chaos from him. It was as if he hadn't cast any magic at all despite evidence to the contrary.

"You're a mage," she remarked, though she frowned. "Without Chaos."

His hooded head tilted to one side, amused before shaking, no.

"I know the basics of Skyrim's five schools," a soft, familiar voice spoke. "But I'm far from adept."

"And yet," the man in armor and navy blue chimed in with good humor. "They still made you Arch-Mage."

"Vojak!" Came the complaint, full of fond exasperation.

"It's a good story," the man, now identified as Vojak, shrugged without remorse.

Geralt finally got a good look at the Dragonborn, now that he was standing still. (Watching him move had been a treat. He was swift on his feet, his bow steady, every shot landing where it was meant. He felt it would be a thrill to fight with this man. He was clearly well trained.)

Just as Eskel had described, his form fitting armor was not quite black, but a dark gray, the plates linked and overlapping like an homage to the feathers of his namesake. The hood was less of a deterrent to his face than the mask that covered all but his eyes, but the hood kept them cast in shadow. On his back was the ornately carved bow, an odd sheen seemed to shimmer across it every so often. It too was dark, appearing black and silver simultaneously. Beside it lay a quiver of arrows. Two sheathes at his waist held a short sword and a dagger respectively, both forged out of the same black-silver metal as his bow and carved with the same swirling pattern.

If Geralt was a poet he might have said the man was midnight incarnate, remarkably true to the namesake bird splayed on his chest.

"So you're the Dragonborn," Geralt rumbled.

It felt as though the entire square, previously creeping closer to the dragon's remains and whispering about the hero who had glided into the square with his voice of thunder, had gone entirely still and silent. They were all watching the strange interaction between witcher and Dragonborn.

"I am."

"And you asked us to meet you here."

"I did. Though, I admit Gromidtoor was unexpected."

Geralt made a face.

"Gromidtoor?" The strange word was clumsy on his tongue.

"Ah, the dragon," he clarified. "One of Alduin's lieutenants. But that isn't actually why I was hoping to- well. It isn't actually why I asked Borch to send you here."

Geralt was immediately on edge.

"And why did you ask him to send us here?" He snarled, hand twitching as though to grab his sword. He felt Eskel and Lambert both go tense behind him.

He first held his hands up in a placating gesture just before he reached up and pulled his hood back, brown hair tumbling free with the odd braids exactly as Triss had described. Eyes closed, he then pulled the face mask down to hang around his neck and Geralt thought he might have stopped breathing because that face - that face –

Bright blue eyes opened and looked up at him, a soft smile curling at the edge of his lips.

"It's good to see you again, Geralt."

The Dragonborn was-

The prophecy was about-

It was-

"Jaskier," he breathed.

Ciri darted past him with a delighted cry.

"Jaskier!"

She was fourteen. She was fourteen and he was a bard and when they collided he lifted her up and swung her around like it was nothing and how. What had happened to the bard?

She took in his face, from his small smile to his longer hair, and she reached up to run fingers along the two that hang by his face.

"We thought you died," she whispered. "There was a ship, and your lute, and-"

"Shh," he smiled again, still small. "I'm alright, little lion. I'll tell you that story soon, I promise."

"Jaskier," Geralt said again, still staring at him as Ciri hugged him.

Jaskier could remember hearing that inflection exactly once before in his life. It had been here in Rinde, after the djinn. Right before Geralt rushed in to save the sexy witch from her inevitable demise.

Ciri stepped away and for a brief moment, Jaskier expected to get punched as Geralt closed the difference between them as if he knew _Whirlwind Sprint_ and-

There were arms wrapped around him.

Geralt was hugging him.

Tentatively, awkwardly, still in his Nightingale armor and covered in drying blood, Jaskier reached up and returned the hug.

Geralt finally pulled away, still grasping his shoulders and looking at him, eyes flickering over the braids in his long hair, the bow over his shoulder, the armor with the Nightingale crest.

"What the fuck happened to you?" He breathed, his tone was equal parts delighted and devastated.

Jaskier could only grin.

"Ancient magic pulled me into another sphere where I was accidently sentenced to death."

Geralt stared, even while Jaskier shrugged.

"It's a long story."

Jaskier saw Yennefer approach beside Geralt, her expression oddly pinched.

"Bard," her lips quirked. "The braids are new."

Jaskier merely hummed, even as he looked amused. A brief frown marred her face at the lack of retaliation.

"They're funny though," Ciri murmured. "Someone did them all different. Here, I can-"

Jaskier jerked back, startling the small group.

" _Nid_!"

Ciri's eyes were wide. Even that single word held the faintest hint of thunder.

"I, ah. No, sorry. They're intentional." He reached a hand up the two hanging by his face. "Each represents part of my time in Skyrim."

He turned his head, running his fingers over each of the braids as he spoke.

"Harbinger," the top braid on the right.

"Nightingale," the braid on the left.

"Arch-Mage," the bottom braid on the right.

" _Dovahkiin_ ," he brushed one of the braids along his face.

"And _sonaan_."

There was another pause.

"Arch-Mage," Yennefer said dryly. "You."

"I tried to tell Tolfdir no, since I only really wanted access to the library to begin with, but I suppose saving the College left a good impression on them."

He hadn't noticed Triss approach behind the witchers.

"I've heard of Harbinger and Nightingale, but the others are new."

Jaskier shook his head.

" _Dovahkiin_ means Dragonborn, nothing more."

"And sonaan?" She asked, with a single eyebrow quirked upward in question.

He grimaced slightly at the mispronunciation, but there was a smile on his face nonetheless as he shook his head.

" _Ni tiid_. Not yet."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fus ro dah_ : Literally, force balance push. Unrelenting Force, a shout used to knock things back and send them flying.  
>  _Fo krah din_ : Literally, frost cold freeze. Frost Breath, a shout that causes frost damage and slows enemies down  
>  _Feim zii gron_ : Literally, fade spirit bind. Become Ethereal, a shout that basically makes you a ghost. I'm playing a little lose with the rules of this shout.  
>  _Faas ru maar_ : Literally, fear run terror. Dismay, a shout that is basically the Rout spell - makes enemies scared and try to flee.  
>  _Yol_ : Literally, fire. The first word of Fire Breath.  
>  _Joor zah frul_ : Literally, mortal finite temporary. Dragonrend.  
>  _Grodmidtoor_ : Bound loyal inferno. A dragon name.  
>  _Zu'u tovit Alduin_ : I seek Alduin.  
>  _Wuld nah kest_ : Literally, whirlwind fury tempest. Whirlwind Sprint, a shout that allows a rapid dash forward.  
>  _Fen hi aak?_ : Will you help?  
>  _Nid. Ni tiid, mal gein. Vah, rok fen bo._ : No. Not yet, little one. Spring, he will come.  
>  _Yol toor shul_ : Literally, fire inferno sun. Fire Breath, a shout that's fire breathing of course.  
>  _Sonaan_ : Bard
> 
> Both Eskel's scene and Gromidtoor reference kill cam shots from Skyrim. Kudos to you if you picked up on them.
> 
> If you've never seen the Nightingale armor from Skyrim, it's my favorite and I'm a little in love with [THIS](https://i.imgur.com/80FcgqI.jpg) sexy HD rendering of it.
> 
> Also, I have Jaskier wielding Ebony weapons. IMHO they're some of the best looking weapons in the game, even if Daedric and Dragonbone are more powerful. (The Bound Weapons are Daedric in appearance, that's actually just game canon.)
> 
> Also also, I know it's literally mentioned once, but I do love the smell of chamomile. 
> 
> This was briefly hinted at before, but Jaskier is using Thieves Guild [Shadowmarks](https://i.redd.it/5kk3ngv1vqc01.png) where he goes. This one is specifically the mark for Escape Route.
> 
> I am also a sucker for meaningful hair braids. I blame fanfic involving Nyx Ulric (Final Fantasy XV) for this.


	6. WUNDUN (Journey)

They separated outside of Rinde with Eskel and Lambert returning to the Path, both making their own way back to Kaer Morhen for the winter. Triss was returning to Temeria to consult with King Foltest, and to explain the prophecy and Alduin and the Skyrim dragons as best she could in order to prepare and protect the people of Temeria as much as possible.

"Where will you go?" Ciri had asked Jaskier after the things had calmed down in the town.

His answer had been vague.

"I'll keep on as I have been."

"You won't go home? Or to Oxenfurt?" Geralt had pressed. Newfound skills and legendary Dragonborn powers aside, surely Jaskier hadn't developed immunity to the winter cold. And even if he had, he would still need food and shelter for the season.

"Don't be foolish, bard, just come with us to Kaer Morhen. I'm sure Geralt would love to see what you can do with your sword."

Geralt hated the hood and mask that blocked Jaskier's reaction from view. The bard's newfound silence was unnerving, as was the fact that he no longer rose to the bait Yennefer dangled.

"If, and I mean _if_ I come with you, you have to accept that I'm not always going to be around," he relented at last with a shake of his head.

Their shared confusion must have been obvious because Jaskier merely sighed and whispered with his voice of thunder instead.

" ** _Het til nu_**."

There was nothing.

As usual when he used his shout and strange magic there was no hint of Chaos, but there was no whirling wind, no displacement of air, no shimmer, no visible indicator that magic had been used. Jaskier was simply _gone_.

Ciri yelped when a voice behind them spoke.

"Gromidtoor won't be the only one of Alduin's compatriots here. Dragons, surprisingly, follow a predictable pattern as to where they'll appear. Vojak should have a good idea of where the next one will be soon."

Yennefer turned around slowly.

"How did you-"

"There is power in the words of the _dovah_ ," Jaskier replied with a shrug before walking between them and beginning up the road as though he hadn't just _vanished_.

"You do that a lot," Ciri remarked, running to walk beside him.

"Hmm?"

"Use those words. That other language."

Jaskier barked out a laugh.

"I didn't even realize…Paar- my mentor in Skyrim who taught me about being _Dovahkiin_ had the same habit whenever we had _tinvaak_. Conversations,” he added, glancing at her with a small smile. “My power as _Dovahkiin_ is in my Voice and the _Rotmulaag_. The Words of Power. That is what comprises my ability and since they’re all in _Dovahzul_ , the Dragon Language, I learned as much as I could to better understand my _Thu'um_."

“Thu’um?” Ciri repeated, stumbling over the strange word.

“Ah, the Voice.”

"Do all dragons have the Voice?"

"They do in Skyrim. A battle between dragons is actually a very intense verbal debate is what my mentor told me."

Ciri grinned widely, and continued to ask questions about the dragons of Skyrim. It was a subject he obviously felt comfortable sharing.

"So how did you get sentenced to death, Jaskier?" Yennefer asked eventually during a lull in Ciri’s questions.

"Accidentally," came the short answer. Frustrated that the bard would no longer engage in verbal sparring Yennefer strode up beside him and stared until he turned to glance her way. As soon as their eyes met, she tried to peek at just what was going through his head-

And immediately stumbled as a roar echoed through her ears; a chanting filled her thoughts and the air around them.

“ _Wo lost fron wah ney dov ahrk fin reyliik do jul voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein._ ”

She pressed her hands to her ears and squeezed her eyes shut as the roar grew.

“ _Jaskier_!” She heard distantly.

The roaring cut off abruptly, the chanting fading away on the wind.

“My thoughts are my own, Yennefer of Vengerberg.” Those blue eyes were _blazing_.

“What was that?” Ciri asked, looking bewildered. Geralt looked tense.

Jaskier frowned even as he turned away from the sorceress to resume walking.

“A safeguard. My power is too great to be bent to anyone’s will.”

Silence reigned after that as Jaskier's previous willingness to share about his time away, and what a terrible description for _pulled into another Sphere_ that was, had up and vanished.

As Geralt would soon realize Jaskier himself was prone to do.

They had made camp one night in the woods and didn't see Jaskier again until they came to a tiny village on the road three days later. It was just like that sometimes - he'd vanish for a few days, or even just a few hours. Never explaining why or where he’d gone. More often than not he stayed with them though. And he _had_ warned them.

It was other things too, Geralt would notice. Sure, there were the obvious differences from when they had travelled together _before_ \- quieter, for one, even with Ciri's chatter and friendly questions. The armor and weapons. The disappearing easily and without notice.

But it was the other things that were really tugging at his attention.

Like the way Jaskier moved. The man was a performer of course, he had an awareness of his body and where it was at all times, but it was as though it had been inverted. Jaskier before had been presence and performance and enticing to watch. This version was a shadow - his movements swift, efficient, and entirely silent. Always a hunter, ready.

It had been wholly unnerving for Geralt to realize that Jaskier made no sound when he walked.

And the other man hadn't been very forthcoming about it when asked.

"A necessary skill," was all he offered.

Jaskier didn't join him on contracts on their way east and Geralt didn't offer. Other than the fight with the dragon in Rinde, he hadn’t seen Jaskier’s new combat abilities, except for his skill with a bow- _that_ he had seen. Jaskier quickly became responsible for catching dinner most nights and it was almost always done with a single arrow. They were impeccably placed regardless of the prey: a rabbit through the head. A doe with her spine severed. A wild turkey through the neck, nearly decapitated.

Some nights near the fire Geralt would watch him fletch new arrows, his quiver always kept full, with deft fingers that screamed of practice.

"Do you still play?" he asked, watching one night after Ciri and Yennefer had both laid down to sleep. He remembered those deft fingers flitting over a lute instead of arrowheads and fletching. Jaskier's own lute Geralt had left at Kaer Morhen for safe keeping the previous winter after finding it and having it repaired. It would be a relief to reunite it with its owner at last, but Geralt hadn’t found a good chance to broach the subject.

Jaskier paused, his face unreadable despite the lack of mask. (Geralt noticed he tended to keep both hood and face mask on more often than not, even when it was just their little group moving along the road. Even now he still had the hood pulled up and casting long shadows over his face.)

"Yes."

The answer was short and Geralt waited for him to expand on it. To tell the whole story he _knew_ was there. He could just imagine it.

 _Of course, I still play! Learned plenty of new songs and even taught those poor Skyrim bards a thing or two. My gods, Geralt, you should have heard what they were trying to pass off as music over there! They sing my praises from Riften to Solitude! Here's a new tune I wrote while there._ (Jaskier hadn't spoken much of Skyrim, but Geralt carefully tucked away ever piece of information he was given.)

"You're much quieter," Geralt finally relented when it became clear that Jaskier had no more to say on the subject of playing the lute. "You keep saying you'll tell us more, but-"

Geralt cut himself off. Once he would have embraced the short, succinct answers and quiet.

It just felt wrong now. It had felt wrong since Caingorn years ago.

Geralt could see that Jaskier had lowered his head, the hood obscuring his face despite the flickering of the fire dying down.

"Perhaps it's not a story worth telling."

Geralt stared.

How could a story of vanishing into another Sphere, preventing the literal end of the world, becoming a gods-gifted savior, and learning to use a magic unlike anything on The Continent be unworthy of telling?

"I find that hard to believe."

Jaskier's head snapped up.

"You went to another _Sphere_ , Jaskier. There's a prophecy about you. You slayed a fucking dragon and stole its _soul_. You accidentally got sentenced to death. How is that not worth telling?"

Jaskier was silent for a long moment and when he spoke it was a voice so soft even Geralt's enhanced hearing barely caught it.

"They didn't even move the first body before they put my head on the block."

Geralt stared again, this time with horror flooding his veins. He'd assumed, foolishly, from Jaskier's throwaway comment back in Rinde that the accidental sentencing had been a humorous affair - like any of the number of jealous cuckolds from before.

How close to death had Jaskier been?

"I didn't know until much later that it wasn't a storm but a Shout that took me to Skyrim. I still don't know who used it or why it was _me_. _Dov tiid nu, the time of the dragon is now_. The world was black and then I woke up in rags on a frigid mountain pass, bound like a common criminal and trying to figure out where the ship had gone and where I was and what the fuck was going on.

“There were three others in that wagon. Ralof, part of a rebellion because Skyrim was of course in the midst of their own war, Lokir, who'd stolen a horse, and Ulfric Stormcloak. Leader of the rebellion and according to Ralof the High King of Skyrim. They took us and another group of prisoners they'd caught in an ambush to a village the Imperials had control over, Helgen.

“They lined us up and read out our crimes. The horse thief tried to run, and they put an arrow into his head. They didn't care that I wasn't a rebel, didn't care I wasn't on their list. The only crime I was guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. After they beheaded the first of the Stormcloak rebels they picked me to go next. His body still lay where it had fallen and they forced me onto my knees beside it. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. It was still warm.

“My head was on the block, already smeared with the other man's blood, gods I never even learned his name and I was covered in his blood, and I watched. I watched the executioner raise his axe and I don't know if it was Destiny or just completely shitty luck, but that was the moment Alduin appeared. The people of Skyrim, of Tamriel, thought dragons were a legend until that moment. Alduin completely destroyed Helgen and somehow managed to save my life. I escaped in the resulting chaos, only thanks to some help by the Stormcloaks but as soon as we were free I found myself completely alone in that place. Alone and wearing a dead man's armor, carrying stolen daggers, and utterly lost in that strange world.

“That was my first day in Skyrim, Geralt. Is that story you wanted to hear? Think I should write a drinking song about it?"

"Jaskier," Geralt started, but hesitated. Because what do you even _say_ to that? That was day one of what, two _years_ in that place?

There was a long pause before either of them spoke again.

"I miss it," Jaskier's voice was low again when he finally spoke. "For a long time I didn't want to believe what was going on around me. I couldn’t believe it. That I could possibly be in a different Sphere. That I was part of some prophecy to save the world. All I wanted was to find a way home and that kept me going. Surely if there had been a way _there_ there was a way _back_." Jaskier sighed. "And then one day I was out with Vilkas on a job for the Companions and when we finished I said 'Let's go home' and I realized I meant Whiterun."

His voice was laced with amusement as he spoke. 

"The Jarl had named me Thane for helping with a dragon that attacked near the city. Gifted me a house. It was just a bed and a warm fire until it wasn't just a bed, but a home. My home. Even if Lydia was a bit of a sass."

Half of what Jaskier told him didn't make sense, even as other things leapt out at Geralt.

A Jarl, like Eist had been of Skellige. Similar, yet still so different from the Continent. Names - Vilkas, Lydia. Were they friends? Or less so? Or more so? 

"That seemed to be a common theme across the Holds. Help the Jarl, become their Thane and get a house."

"So you had a house in every hold I take it?"

Geralt meant it in jest, but then-

"Eight of nine. Winterhold didn't exactly have property for sale, but I ended up with the Arch-Mage's quarters anyway at the College."

Geralt stared at Jaskier across the fire for a long moment.

"You're not joking."

Jaskier shook his head.

"Fuck, Jaskier. Why not just take over the entire place at that rate?"

To Geralt's surprise, that made Jaskier flinch.

"I probably shouldn't have let any Jarl name me Thane with all the political maneuvering going on with the war, but I didn't choose sides. For as many random jobs and bounties and errands I ended up involved with, my focus was always Alduin and finding a way back here."

Back here. Not back home. Was Skyrim home now? It had been, for a while at least, Jaskier had admitted as much. But now that he'd returned to this Sphere, where he belonged, what would feel more like home?

Home was an odd concept to Geralt. In some ways the Continent was his home as he walked the Path. Kaer Morhen was home in other ways. And now home was a little girl, a Child Surprise.

Home was a sorceress who'd saved and destroyed him.

Home was a best friend and bard who'd stood beside him for twenty some years.

They were his home and Geralt wasn't ready to lose any of them.

"When you finish what you need to do, will you stay?" Geralt asked at last.

Will you stay, here with me? Or will you find a way to go back to Skyrim?

Jaskier didn't answer his question.

"Goodnight, Geralt."

They spoke no more that night.

==

The next village they passed through was where they realized why Jaskier kept disappearing for days on end.

The tavern was full of chatter about it.

"Did you hear about the dragon?"

Of course news from Rinde had travelled so quickly. Of course.

"In Trelogor?"

"In _Varlburg._ "

"You're both behind, this one was in Yspaden!"

Geralt glanced over at Jaskier across the table. He looked odd without his usual Nightingale attire. Still dressed in gray and black and silent in his steps, but softer somehow.

Jaskier merely raised an eyebrow in response.

"Trelogor took theirs down just fine, seems the warnings that've been spreading and insistence folks take up archery skills is working, but the one in Yspaden was actually out a ways from the town proper- some little hamlet. _He_ showed up."

There was excitement in the gossip.

"Same story as Rinde? His voice is like thunder?"

"Not just that!" The story teller was thrilled to have news the others hadn't heard yet, if his tone of glee was anything to go by. "He conjured up a woman of flame who hurled fire at the beast I heard!"

"Now you're spinning tales!"

"A woman of flame? The rumors are getting worse by the day."

"Swear down! They say he faced the beast hisself, and summoned her to even the odds."

"Is that where you've been going?" Geralt asked lowly, still listening to the conversation even as it turned away from the excitement of another dragon to more mundane news.

"Sometimes. I told you, dragons are predictable. Rode from Yspaden to Crinfrid the other night though."

"Why?" Ciri couldn't help but ask. "If you can move immediately why bother riding?"

"Where your Thu'um has been, hear its echo," he replied, sounding as though he were quoting someone or something. "I can't travel somewhere I haven't been before with it."

"It's more than a single night to ride from Yspaden to Crinfrid," Geralt observed, still watching Jaskier closely. Without the dark hood obscuring his face it was almost easier to read him. Almost. Jaskier wore stoicism like an easy mask now.

A toothy grin was his response.

"I have more than one trick up my sleeve to get around quickly."

"What's this about a woman of flame?" Yennefer cut it. "I thought you said you weren't adept at magic."

"I'm not. I truly can only cast basic spells in most of the schools. I just seem to have a knack for Conjuration. And Enchanting."

"Your bow is enchanted, isn't it?" Ciri asked. "It shines oddly sometimes, I noticed. Even at night."

Jaskier hummed, though it was a pleased sound.

"It is. All of my weapons and armor are."

"Hold that thought, tell me about the woman of flame."

Jaskier looked amused at the sorceress.

"It's a Flame Atronach. An elemental golem. Fire is the element most mages in Skyrim begin with."

"An odd inversion. Fire magics are generally frowned upon here."

"One of many differences, I assure you."

"Did you enchant your bow yourself?" Ciri cut in, eyes alight with curiosity. "And your armor?"

"I did the enchantments on my weapons, and the secondary enchantments on my armor, though the armor is," Jaskier paused, his mouth a thin line as he clearly grappled with how to explain it. "Special."

"What sorts of enchantments? Can you enchant things here?"

"The bow has an elemental damage enchantment tied to it, while my sword siphons energy in a way. The armor has a variety of enchantments, most related to easier movement and decreasing damage. Especially fire damage." He added with another wry grin. "And no, I lack the right… materials, to do enchanting here."

"Your dagger."

"Pardon?"

Gold met blue across the table in challenge.

"You said all of your weapons and armor are enchanted. You didn't mention what enchantment is on your dagger."

"It's not important."

"I think it is."

There was a split second, a rustle of fabric, and with a jarring _slam_ against the table that caused those closest to look over, Jaskier's dagger was laid out, his hand splayed over the hilt. Just like with his sword and bow, there was a weak, faint sheen of light that glimmered over the silver-black weapon.

"The enchantment on weapons wears down over time and I've prioritized keeping my bow enchanted over the others."

Geralt reached out a hand, peering at the looping lines carved into the blade and handle.

" _Soul Trap_ will wear off soon enough."

The witcher pulled his hand back, his eyes shooting up to meet Jaskier's blank look.

"Soul-?" He breathes.

"Enchantments require a cost," he says mildly with a glance at Yennefer. The mage understood all too well that magic has a balance between give and take. "This is the cost that is paid."

"A _soul_ ," Yennefer murmurs, some horror seeping into her voice.

"A lifeforce would be more apt," Jaskier says, still nonchalant. The dagger was secreted away again with a flourish. "All sorts of monsters and beasts can be Soul Trapped, so you can quit with the mortified looks."

"You've changed," Geralt murmured lowly after a pause of silence.

"I survived," Jaskier replied evenly, though not unkindly.

Geralt recalled the horrific story the bard had recounted only a few nights prior.

_They didn't even move the first body before they put my head on the block._

The rest of the meal was a silent, tense affair.

==

They had just crossed into Kaedwen near the Kestrel Mountains and turning north towards Vespaden when the comment was finally made.

“This would be so much faster if we had another horse.”

Jaskier turned around from where he had been walking in front of Roach and Aster, Yennefer’s black stallion. A dramatic mount just suited her.

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Jaskier asked with a wry twist of his lips. He held up his hand, fingers splayed, and his strange black-violet magic swirled. He twisted his hand and they could feel the air around him _pull_ as the glow brightened with a hum of power.

He turned away again and pushed his hand toward the empty road in front of them.

In a sphere of shimmering magic the spell came to life in the form of a skeleton. The skeleton of a horse, pitch black with a bright violet energy that flickered like flames where its eyes, mane, and tail would have been in life.

Aster whinnied and reared slightly at the sight, restless movements despite Yennefer’s soothing sounds and petting. Geralt held his fingers together and cast _Axii_ on the stallion to calm him, thankful that Roach had remained steadfast and calm as ever.

The skeleton horse nudged against Jaskier with his flaming head.  
“Hello, Arvak. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

The summon, impossibly, whinnied.

“What the fuck,” Yennefer breathed and Jaskier glanced back at the trio. Cirir’s eyes were wide as she looked between Jaskier and the horse and he couldn’t help but throw a wink at her.

“That,” Geralt deadpanned, the tightness is his voice betraying his surprise, “must be quite the story.”

Jaskier rolled one shoulder in a shrug before pulling himself up onto Arvak, but there was a soft smile on his face as he thought of Serana.

“There was… a prophecy. A different one, not the one about the Dragonborn,” Jaskier began. Geralt nudged Roach alongside him as they resumed moving along the trail. “And to stop it, we needed an item that had been hidden away by… an accomplished necromancer.”

“You’re being very careful with your words,” Geralt remarked casually, taking in the brief pauses.

“I helped a vampire find her mother in a realm of the dead,” Jaskier returned flatly.

“A _vampire_.”

“She got better.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“I’m actually serious, vampirism in Skyrim can be cured.”

“And just how would you know that?” Geralt growled. When the bard ducked his head, Geralt didn’t let it go. “ _Jaskier_.”

“The Soul Cairn isn’t a place for living, I didn’t have a choice,” Jaskier murmured, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“You let her turn you,” Geralt intoned softly.

“Just long enough to get into the Soul Cairn to get what we needed. I was cured less than a day later,” Jaskier’s voice was picking up in both speed and volume.

“What’s the Soul Cairn?” Ciri cut in before Geralt could reply. Her expression was one that wouldn’t melt butter if it was in her mouth, all wide-eyed and innocent, but Geralt knew better. With a low growl he let Jaskier take the diversion.

“It’s a different plane of existence, part of Oblivion, home to the Daedra. Gods, demons. It’s a bit complicated.”

“What was it like?”

“Eerie,” Jaskier replied. “Strange twisted trees that looked dead but weren’t. The sky is always dark like a storm at night, and despite it never actually storming, lightning strikes down constantly. Buildings, some in ruins, some standing, built of dark stone. Guarded by bonemen, wrathmen, and mistmen. No sun, just a single moon and a strange black void. And souls wandering about. There was a dragon there, too.”

“A dragon?”

“Mmm. Durnehviir. He was fooled and trapped there.”

Jaskier stopped Arvak abruptly, a frown on his face. Geralt stopped Roach alongside him.

“Is there a reason we’re blocking the road?” Yennefer asked with clear annoyance from behind.

Jaskier didn’t respond but slid off the skeleton, and gave it a pat just before it seemed to fall and dissolve away. Eyes slowly tracking the trees on either side, he slowly, silently removed his bow from his back.

“Jaskier?” Geralt intoned, hand on the hilt of his steel sword.

“There’s something up ahead,” he murmured quietly, almost too soft for Ciri and Yen to pick up, but Geralt heard it clearly. The witcher bit back a growl.

“ ** _Laas yah nir_**.”

A whisper, one that caused the air to tremble, but didn’t echo the way Jaskier’s voice often did.

Neither Ciri nor Yen could contain their surprise and both made small sounds as figures shaped like men lit in a red glow all throughout the trees in front of them.

“Ambush,” Geralt growled, sliding off Roach and trying to count the number.

“Nilfgaard, probably,” Jaskier agreed, turning his head to count the numbers. “Turn around, find cover – the rocky outcrop we passed a short ways back. Get under it as best you can. You should be far enough away, but better to play it safe.”

“There are at least three dozen men,” Geralt growled, eyes flickering from glowing form to glowing form in the trees. “You can’t possibly mean to take them on alone.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was low and firm. “Just this once, I need you to trust me. _Go_.”

“Jas-” Yennefer tried.

“ _Go_.”

Geralt held that bright blue gaze for a long moment, the red figures shifting in the trees behind him. The witcher bit back a snarl but turned and swung back onto Roach in an easy motion, turning the horse and kicking up at dirt as he spurred her into a gallop.

“Geralt!” Yen cried, looking after Roach retreating and back at Jaskier. He had already turned away from her, pulling up his hood and cowl. With her own snarl, she sent Aster running behind the mare.

When the sound of hooves on the road grew distant, Jaskier strode along the road swiftly, watching the men marked by his Shout ready themselves to attack, even as he breathed evenly to ready his own. _A Shout to the skies, a cry to the clouds_.

The men moved from the trees.

Jaskier breathed.

“ ** _Strun bah qo_**.”

Thunder echoed through the skies.

Yennefer gasped and turned at the sound. A strange pocket of dark storm clouds swirled in an otherwise clear sky, undoubtedly by magic.

“Fuck,” she breathed, eyes wide as lightning struck down from the dark clouds rapidly. Geralt had stepped out from the rocky outcrop Jaskier had mentioned to stand beside her.

“Fuck,” he agreed.

The storm raged wild for what felt like ages but was really only a few minutes and as the rain and thunder lessened and the clouds cleared away they quickly rode back up the road.

The entire ambush lay sprawled, dead, covered in mud and charred armor.

Jaskier stood in the midst of it, unmarked, water dripping from the plates of his own armor.

“ _Med strun do uznahgaar nahkriin_ ,” he rumbled, the words clearly not meant for them. Pushing his hood back, he took a shuddering breath. “ _Aal hin sil rovaan stin mahfaeraak._ ”

“Jask?” Geralt approached as softly as he could atop Roach with Ciri.

“You’re alright then?” Jaskier asked, turning to glance at them over his shoulder.

“We’re fine.”

“Good. We should keep moving, if Nilfgaard is already this far north we may want to avoid the main roads from here on out.”

With little fanfare, he called Arvak to him and mounted the strange skeletal creature once more.

“Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Het til nu_ : Literally, here there now. The Echoed Voice shout of my own creation, because fast travel.  
>  _Dovah_ : Dragon  
>  _Tinvaak_ : Conversation  
>  _Rotmulaag_ : Words of Power  
>  _Dovahzul_ : Dragon Speech  
>  _Thu'um_ : Storm Voice  
>  _Wo lost fron wah ney dov ahrik fin reyliik do jul voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein_ : Who was kin to both wyrm and the races of man, with a power to rival the sun. This line comes from the Song of the Dragonborn and I use it a lot.  
>  _Laas yah nir_ : Literally, life seek hunt. Aura Whisper, a shout that highlights living things, even through obstacles and at a distance.  
>  _Strun bah qo_ : Literally, storm wrath lightning. Storm Call, a shout that creates a storm and lightning bolts for several minutes. (And IMHO one of the most underrated shouts, but it's dangerous to use because it kills indiscriminately.)  
>  _Med strun do uznahgaar nahkriin. Aal hin sil rovaan stin mahfaeraak_ : Like a storm of unbridled vengeance. May your souls wander free forever.
> 
> Miraak can absolutely make you one of his mindless workers if you sleep on Solstheim, but I decided nah, as the Last Dragonborn Jaskier is protected against that.
> 
> I also know that you don't have to become a vampire to get into the Soul Cairn, but for the sake of drama, you do now.
> 
> Arvak is honestly the greatest hack in Skyrim. If you're overencumbered, you can summon Arvak, climb on, and fast travel.
> 
> You can't actually put a secondary enchantment on weapon or armor that's already enchanted, which never ceases to make me huffy. But my story, my rules.


	7. VOD (Past)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I need you to know I actually kind of adore Vesemir, but I needed someone to fill this role.
> 
> More Skyrim flashbacks and dialogue adapted from the game.

Kaer Morhen loomed over them dark and quiet as they made their way along the end of the trail and at last arrived at the home of the Wolves in the Blue Mountains. They were quiet, solemn even as they passed through the gates.

Vesemir’s expression was severe as he approached while they dismounted their horses in the courtyard of the keep.

“Eskel and Lambert mentioned you might be bringing yet another stray, Geralt.”

Though the words sounded like a jest, the tone did not.

“Vesemir,” Geralt looked between his father figure and the best friend he’d thought he’d lost. “This is important. And…it’s Jaskier.”

Vesemir’s frown only became more pronounced.

“Doesn’t look like a bard to me.”

“Ciri had a vision – a prophecy. And Jaskier is-”

Luckily, Geralt didn’t have to try to explain as Jaskier stepped around him and fixed the old wolf with a measured gaze.

“A beast from another Sphere has been sent here. When he arrives, it’s my destiny to send him back.”

“Yes, there was some mention of that. Dragonborn.”

Geralt glanced at Yennefer and Ciri, who both looked back with the same expression of concern and confusion.

Vesemir had spoken the word like an insult.

“Uncle Vesemir?”

Ciri always knew how to diffuse a situation. The old witcher looked her way, his expression softening.

“There is a prophecy. And Jaskier has the blood of a dragon, but they’re different from the dragons of our continent. We’ve all seen it.”

Vesemir’s gaze snapped back to Jaskier.

“Hmm, I shall see it for myself.”

He vanished into the keep.

“It… might be best if you don’t disappear until we get this sorted,” Geralt murmured to Jaskier as they gathered their things and followed behind the older witcher.

Ciri hoped that after a few days he’d warm up to Jaskier.

But he didn’t.

Vesemir snipped and sniped at Jaskier, who took it in stride. Geralt had never hated Jaskier’s new lack of expression more than he did then.

Jaskier took on every task the witcher asked of him; repairs around the keep, cooking meals, cleaning out stables. All without a word of protest or complain. Just a silent shadow lurking around the keep.

When Vesemir was training with Cirilla and the other witchers, Jaskier would make himself scare. Geralt had followed him just long enough to find him meditating and not wanting to interfere retreated with quiet steps. When the others were relaxing at the end of the day, Jaskier would be in the courtyard, black weapons flashing silver in the dim light of the moon and stars or putting arrow after arrow into the bullseye of a target.

Lambert kept trying to get him to partake in conversation during dinner. Eskel would try to discuss whatever he was reading, but the bard was quieter than he had been on the road.

The tension was fraught but nobody knew what to do to lessen it, and the heavy snows were only days away.

==

"When you're finished, meet me in the courtyard. With your equipment." 

Vesemir leveled an unreadable expression at the so-called Dragonborn who gazed evenly back.

Jaskier inclined his head in a slight nod of acceptance.

It was no surprise that everyone finished their morning meal as quickly as possible to join the old wolf and the Dragonborn in the courtyard.

Geralt gave the bard an amused glance, excitement lancing through him at the thought of crossing blades with Jaskier and putting his power to the test at last.

"I'm not going to go easy on you, you know."

"Indeed you won't. I will test the Dragonborn's skill for myself," Vesemir announced, approaching the assembled crew. Geralt frowned at the sight of his mentor in full armor, steel and silver words both gleaming sharp on his back.

Eskel and Lambert exchanged a glance and moved back with Ciri and Yennefer to be out of the way of the fight.

"Hope you're ready to patch him up," Lambert quipped to the sorceress. She looked between the men and wondered privately which one she would be patching.

The witcher with decades of experience who managed to look imposing but tense, or the Dragonborn with an otherworldly power they didn't understand.

Jaskier looked calm and unbothered, his face uncovered in a rare moment where he wore neither hood nor mask.

Geralt looked between the two, before he gave a long look at his father figure who did not react. He gave a resigned sigh before moving to the side with the others.

"Am I going into this fight prepared or as if ambushed?" Jaskier asked, his gaze never breaking from the older man.

"I'll let you prepare and take whatever advantage you think you have, Dragonborn."

Vesemir's tone on the title told everyone what he thought of this strange man who had supposedly traveled between worlds.

Geralt wished he could warn him. They had all seen the power of Jaskier's Shouts for themselves, heard the thunder that accompanied his words, and watched him duel dragons with tongue and blade alike.

Jaskier gave another small nod of acceptance, then swiftly pulled the obscuring hood and mask over his face

" ** _Mul qah diiv_** ," he breathed with the usual rumble of thunder. Light twisted around his form in translucent spikes of orange and blue, as though covered in fire. Geralt realized the form looked reminiscent of the very dragons he had fought.

" ** _Su grah dun_** ," came next the next quiet roar. Wind seemed to whip around his glowing form momentarily but otherwise there was no indication as to what the words had done for him.

Vesemir's expression tightened but he made no other motions.

Jaskier's blades remained sheathed, even as he took a ready stance when Vesemir drew his steel sword.

"You best draw your weapon, Dragonborn!" The witcher shouted as he leapt to close the distance.

An odd sound of steel colliding with _something_ rang out, and there was a momentary pause in that first move as they all realized Jaskier had not drawn his ebony blades but instead had summoned ghostly, wicked looking weapons. Vesemir's steel sword was locked between a sword and dagger, just like Jaskier normally wielded, though they were eerie and vicious looking. Vesemir snarled, his face close to Jaskier's mask. The Dragonborn simply tilted his head as though contemplating his next move.

" ** _Fus_**."

Eskel remembered that move, had seen it blow the Nilgaardians off their feet. Even the single word (and oh, Eskel desperately wanted to speak to Jaskier about the words and what they meant and how they worked) had pushed Vesemir away from him, the witcher sliding back, arms up in defense.

The older man barely recovered as a volley of arrows flew at him, inhumanly fast.

" ** _Wuld_**."

Distance closed between them again, Vesemir's silver sword joined the fray as he blocked the fast blows from Jaskier's actual ebony sword paired with strange ghostly dagger. The speed of the blows was beyond that of a human and the Dragonborn was pushing Vesemir to his limit to stay on guard. Desperate to create distance between them again, he dropped the silver sword and threw out an _Aard_ at Jaskier before quickly picking up the second sword again.

Jaskier slid back, but stayed on his feet, oddly balanced against the force of the Sign. Realization dawned quickly. Jaskier had fought _dragons_ , dragons who used the same Voice he did. How many times had been on the receiving end of a Shout to learn to stand against it?

Vesemir paced a wide circle, more wary now as he eyed the still glowing figure standing opposite of him.

Jaskier's hand with the ghostly dagger twisted, the blade vanishing. A faint silver shimmer appeared around it. He paced opposite of Vesemir, giving the ebony blade a casual twirl.

"So you have some skill," Vesemir called to him, his voice edged with a hint of something almost fond. Proud even.

"Some," Jaskier agreed.

Vesemir threw out an _Igni_ and was surprised to see it countered quickly with a blast of cold wind and ice from the Dragonborn's unarmed hand.

"If those are novice spells," Yennefer remarked quietly, "I wonder what a mastery would look like." 

Ciri's wide green eyes glanced back at her.

"Novice?"

Yennefer shook her head.

"Jaskier himself said he only knows the basics in everything but Conjuration."

Vesemir's next attempt was _Axii_.

Jaskier's body language read unamused, even angry as a strange chanting seemed to whip up on the wind around them.

Yennefer's face paled as she recognized the same cadence she had heard when she'd tried to read his thoughts. Ciri drew a sharp breath.

"I've heard this before!"

" _Wo lost fron wah ney dov ahrk fin reyliik do jul voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein_."

"Men with greater power than you have tried to bend my will, Vesemir. And they failed too."

"I-"

Whatever Vesemir was going to say was lost to a crack of thunder, one so loud it shook the walls of the keep and echoed in the mountains surrounding them.

" ** _Zuun hal viik_**."

Vesemir stared as his blades landed in the dirt behind him, ripped away by an unknown force.

" **Wuld nah kest**."

Jaskier was _right there_ , his ebony blades crossed at Vesemir's neck. His hooded countenance gave away nothing.

"I have nothing to prove to you, witcher. _Zu'u ni faas hi_."

"No," Vesemir agreed. "You don't."

There was a pause before Jaskier pulled back, the intangible armor fading as he sheathed his blades before pushing his hood back. He offered Vesemir a small smile.

" _Brit grah._ It was a worthy fight."

"High praise for one who has slain dragons, I imagine."

The smile turned bitter.

"I was born both dragon and dragonslayer. _Qostiid sahlo aak_. My fight is with Alduin. If I could leave everyone else out of it, I would."

Vesemir reached out a hand and grasped his shoulder, but said nothing else before turning to head inside, retrieving his blades as he went.

The others approached as he retreated.

"Okay, I'll admit you put on a pretty good show," Lambert rumbled. "Been a while since I've seen someone get the drop on the old wolf."

Eskel was almost bouncing.

"How do the words work? When you knocked him back, you've done that before but it was different."

"Ignore him, Eskel's always been more interested in magic than should be allowed," Lambert said with a roll of his eyes.

"Actually," Ciri piped up. "I'm curious too. Is it like an incantation? Can you yell any word with power?"

"Come along, bard, you must tell us all of your secrets," Yennefer added with a smile, looping her arm in his as they began moving toward the keep in a bundle of chatter. Jaskier's eyes sought out Geralt's and he sent the witcher a silent plea for assistance.

Geralt merely leveled him with a flat look in return.

"And you can explain the thunder."

That bastard.

Inside they sat down like children watching a story and Jaskier was momentarily taken aback at the sheer hilarity of the situation. Three witchers and a sorceress with dozens of years of experience on him and the princess of Cintra all waiting to hear some long overdue explanations.

"Well, I guess the first thing is what I told Ciri before, _dov_ fight with their voices."

"You said a fight between dragons is a debate!" She chimed in.

"That's right. Not all of _Dovahzul_ , the dragon language is part of the fight, only the _Rotmulaag_ , the Words of Power are used to Shout. The Words of Power are the _Thu'um_ , the Storm Voice and all _dov_ have the _Thu'um_. As _Dovahkiin_ , I have it too."

"Storm Voice," Geralt repeated. "That's why it always rolls thunder when you use it."

Jaskier nodded.

"There are some whose _Thu'um_ is so powerful even a simple sentence would cause destruction."

Geralt caught Jaskier's eyes, but the other looked away immediately. Did Jaskier-

" _Rotmulaag_ are arranged into Shouts, usually with three words. The more words, the more power behind the Shout."  
"That was the difference," Eskel commented, eyes alight. "You only used one word on Vesemir to knock him back."

Jaskier nodded.

" _Unrelenting Force_ is comprised of the three words _fus, ro,_ and _dah._ Force, balance, push. It's one of the most common Shouts amongst _dov_ and others who learn to Shout."

"You can _learn_ it?" Lambert asked incredulous, though he looked interested.

"With years of meditation and practice. Your Thu'um will never be as powerful or controlled as a natural speaker though."

"Like a _dovah_ or _Dovahkiin_ ," Ciri said, her tone a little sad.

"Hey," Jaskier said, tilting her chin up. "You might still be able to apply some of the knowledge behind it to your own voice, even if it's not _the_ Voice."

The young girl smiled at that thought, her interest clear and gleaming in her eyes.  
"What were the Shouts you used against Vesemir?" Geralt asked.

"And the spells - the weapons and the ice," Yennefer demanded.

"Ah, let's start with the Shouts. The first one I used is _Dragon Aspect_ \- as you can probably guess it allows me to take on the strength of a _dovah_."

"I thought you already had that?" Geralt looked confused.

"I have the Voice of a _dovah_ , the soul of one," he shook his head. "I’m still only human though.”

His eyes caught Geralt's again and the witcher knew there was something Jaskier wasn't saying.

"The second," he continued, "was _Elemental Fury_ which imbues me and my movements with the speed of the wind. I think you've seen the others before. _Unrelenting Force_ is like your own _Aard_ and _Whirlwind Sprint_ allows me to move across a distance more quickly. _Disarm_ is what made Vesemir lose his swords."

"There are others though. Fire and ice?" Eskel asked. "You used fire against the dragon in Rinde and ice against the Nilfgaardians."

“And the storm you called,” Geralt commented. Jaskier’s scent of storm, and fire, and ice made so much more sense the more he learned what the bard had been through and become.

Jaskier hummed an agreement.

"There are many more. Shouts to soothe animals and men, shouts to confuse, shouts to instill fear. In theory with the right _Rotmulaag_ you could create a shout to do most anything."

"Like move between Spheres," Geralt said quietly, more to himself.

 _It wasn't a storm, but a Shout that took me to Skyrim_.

Geralt suspected it was a Shout that had returned Jaskier as well.

Would another Shout take him away again?

Jaskier pointedly didn't reply and looked at Yennefer.

"The ice is a low level Destruction spell, Frostbite. The weapons are Conjuration spells, as you likely guessed. Useful, when one needs to sneak into enemy territory unarmed."

"This sounds like a story," Yennefer remarked. "Just what did you get up to in Skyrim, Jaskier?"

"All sorts of interesting trouble, I assure you," he replied flippantly. "The long story short is I had to sneak into a high society party hosted by one of the two factions involved in the Civil War while looking for information about what brought the dragons back. I had to keep my gear to a minimum."

He took a deep breath and continued.

"I used them again later to break out of prison. That was my fault though, I was warned to stop asking question when I arrived in Markarth, but I am, as you are aware, me."

"Broke out of prison," Geralt leveled him with a look.

"All sorts of interesting trouble, like I said."

==

Jaskier’s openness after his fight with Vesemir seemed to be a one off. Though his relationship with the old witcher had certainly thawed, he remained as quiet and aloof as he’d been since they’d started traveling with him. What little they could get him to talk about was shallow, meaningless subjects. Despite his promises to discuss what had happened to pull him to Skyrim and his time there he was terse at best and evasive at worst.

“What was Skyrim like? You said it was similar to the Northern Kingdoms?” Ciri asked one night.

“Mmm. In a way. Mountainous, cold. Parts of it were covered in snow all year.”

“All year? But what about food?” Lambert asked looking up from his plate.

“Plenty of thing were strong enough to grow,” he said with a shrug.

“Such as?” Yennefer prompted.

Jaskier hummed.

“Snowberries. Other hardy things. Plenty of game to be find and hunt too.”

They all tried different tactics, but were met with largely the same result.

“Going from a bard to warrior must’ve been interesting, how did you learn to fight?” Lambert asked, learning against a stone wall one evening as Jaskier put arrow after arrow into a dummy.

He paused and turned his hooded head towards the witcher.

“Necessity. And a lot of help.”

Lambert smirked.

“Bet you needed all the help you could get.”

An arrow pierced the center of the dummy’s head and Lambert swallowed. The strength of the shot had sent the arrow clean through, the arrowhead visible out the back.

“At first.”

“And then you learned.”

Another arrow, right beside the previous one.

“And then I learned.”

Eskel tried a different route.

“What did you do when you weren’t off fighting dragons?” He asked one day as they wandered the library during one of Ciri’s lessons.

“Didn’t have a lot of downtime. Skyrim is a hard country, and there’s always work to be done,” Jaskier replied, running his fingers over the worn spine of a book. “But I guess it would depend on where I was.”

“How do you mean?”

Jaskier frowned at him and shook his head, grabbing the book.

“In Winterhold I’d visit the library at the College. In Whiterun I’d stop in at Jorrvaskr.”

He ducked away but Eskel caught him around the corner.

“Jorrvaskr?”

“A mead hall,” Jaskier replied, moving back to Cirilla and setting the book he’d grab down on the table near her elbow. “Here, I read this one at Oxenfurt. Should help you with understanding the politics of gift giving.”

She shot him a smile.

“Thank you.”

He nodded, and slipped silently from the room. Eskel sighed as turned the corner out the door.

“Geralt needs to talk to him,” Ciri muttered.

Geralt would argue he tried, but he clammed up every time he did so, unable to reconcile this dark, withheld version of Jaskier with the bright and bubbly bard who’d sang filthy drinking songs in front of a Queen. Granted, it had been Queen Calanthe, who herself had entered the feast covered in blood, but the point still stood.

Ciri caught him off guard as they were getting ready for bed one night.

“You have to _talk_ to him, Geralt.”

“I can’t.”

“You _have_ to,” she insisted mournfully. “He’s lost, and he doesn’t know the rest of us well enough to trust us, but _you-_ ”

“I’m the reason he ended up on that damn ship, the reason he ended up in Skyrim.”

Ciri was quiet for a moment.

“You… you said a Shout took him there. That he told you so.”

“Hmm.”

“Then wouldn’t it have taken him from anywhere? You didn’t send him there, Geralt. But you can help him _here._ ”

Geralt looked at the girl in wonder, somewhat in awe of her wisdom despite her young age. He pulled her for a tight hug before tucking her blankets around here.

“Tomorrow. I’ll find him tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she agreed, turning onto her side. “I’m holding you to it.”

==

He was in a half destroyed room when Geralt found him. The wall had been blown out in the sacking of Kaer Morhen and never repaired. It was open to the frigid wind, snow falling gently as he kneels in the center of the room, face bare for once and tilted toward the sky, though his eyes were closed. 

The familiar rumble of thunder was audible in the distance.

Geralt didn’t disturb Jaskier though, just stepped into the room with a shiver and took a seat on a nearby block, mostly sheltered from the elements blowing in. He didn't wait nearly as long as he was expecting.

"You can interrupt; I suspect my meditation isn't quite the same as yours," Jaskier said simply as he lowered his head and opened his eyes. He turned to the witcher with a small smile on his face.

"Still seems rude," Geralt rumbled, though he stood as he said it and walked over. Jaskier shrugged and looked back out through the open wall to the snow falling on the surrounding landscape.

There was a long silence between them.

"You're so much quieter than I remember," Geralt finally spoke, breaking the silence and settling down beside Jaskier. "It's not- it's not _bad_ , but sometimes I barely recognize you."

Jaskier's gaze dropped to his hands in his lap and his response was low enough that Geralt almost didn’t catch it.

"Sometimes I don't recognize myself either."

Bright blue eyes turn to face gold.

"But, you've changed too you know. I've never known you to be this open. Or conversational."

There's a jest in his tone, but Geralt knew Jaskier's words were true.

Geralt sighed.

"Ciri, I suspect, is to thank for that. And Yen. But mostly Ciri," he glanced back to the bard. "You never told me you were keeping an eye on her."

A surprised bark of laughter escaped him.

"After Rinde can you blame me? Besides, it’s not like it or I was doing much. What was it we both said? _Like putting salve on a tumor_ ," Jaskier shook his head as if to dispel unpleasant memories. "Before Skyrim, no, before _Caingorn_ I had every intention of telling you what I knew. That I had an in to Cintra, to Ciri, when the time was right. I'd hoped you'd come around to wanting to meet her eventually. I'm just sorry I wasn't there to see it."

"Not as glamorous as you're probably imagining. Calanthe tried to give me a fake and threw me in prison."

"That does sound like her. I take it she…?"

Jaskier trailed off, glancing back over to him.

"She didn't survive the fall. And lost Eist before that."

Jaskier's head bowed, a moment to mourn the Cintran monarchs he'd performed for over the years and could have even been considered friends.

"So," Geralt began again, hoping to steer the conversation toward less depressing topics. "What _do_ you meditate on?"

"Ah," Jaskier's hands clenched in his lap. "Mostly the _Rotmulaag_. Understanding them helps me understand my Voice. But also on my nature. What it means to be _dovah._ Part of why you find me so much quieter, I suppose."

"What do you mean? You're still you, even as Dragonborn or however you like to say it."

Jaskier's head shook more harshly this time before he turned to look at Geralt properly at last.

"I'm not though. As _Dovahkiin_ I _am_ a _dovah_ and I feel it just as surely as my brothers do. Dragons were created for domination. _Onikaan ni ov dovah_. Wisdom is not trusting a dragon. Paarthurnax taught me this."

"Paarthurnax?" Geralt caught Jaskier's spine go rigid before slumping as if in defeat. "A dragon?"

"Paarthurnax…I consider him my mentor. He was once second only to Alduin. Dragon names are always three words of power, did you know?” He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Paarthurnax’s is no different. Ambition, overlord, cruelty. His name. And yet, he was the dragon tasked by the gods to teach the first _Dovahkiin_ to use the _Thu'um_ and taught me as well. Now he believes in using his Voice not for destruction but worship."

"But he taught you how to use it to fight," Geralt said with some hesitation. Jaskier nodded.

"The prophecy calls me the _last_ Dragonborn. The one who will stop Alduin. I needed - I need my _Thu'um_ to face him and Paarthurnax knew that well."

They lapsed into silence, less tense than before as Geralt processed what Jaskier had revealed.

"Never trust a dragon," he said at last. "That's it, isn't it? Why you're so much quieter. Why you don’t tell us anything. Why you hide up here meditating. You don't trust _yourself_."

Jaskier's smile was brittle and heartbreaking.

"I'm trying, Geralt. I'm trying. When I first arrived in Skyrim I was in a carriage with Ulfric Stormcloak who had used his _Thu'um_ to kill the High King. The Greybeards who follow The Way of the Voice can no longer speak because their Voices are simply too powerful. Paarthurnax meditates every day on the highest damn mountain in all of Tamriel to overcome his nature. He once asked me which is better - to be born good, or to overcome your evil nature through great effort and I don't know. I don't know if I was born good; I don't know what my true nature is anymore. I am _Dovahkiin_ and I can't deny that, but every day I challenge myself to think that perhaps that's not all that I am."

Geralt watched as the unconsciously reached up and twined his fingers into the two braids beside his face. One that marked him as Dragonborn and the other-

"Jaskier," it came out more harshly than Geralt intended as he rose to his feet and Jaskier's eyes cut to him quickly. "Come with me."

Jaskier's confusion was apparent even as Geralt lent his hand to pull him to his feet. The Dragonborn kept a half pace behind the witcher as they wound through the halls of Kaer Morhen from the empty room he'd found to the tower where Geralt's personal room was located. Jaskier stopped on the threshold, even as Geralt went straight in and over to a wardrobe in the corner, tugging it open.

Jaskier's gaze flitted around the personal effects of the room and missed it as Geralt retrieved a familiarly shaped case and returned across the room.

"I should have returned this to you when we first arrived and I'm loathe to admit I forgot about it," Geralt said, drawing Jaskier's gaze back to him and the object in his hands.

Jaskier would swear his heart stopped as he gently took it and opened the case.

"Whatever happened in Skyrim. Whatever your nature as a dragon or Dragonborn - _this_ is who you were, Jaskier. And it's still who you are. You might be different, but you’re still _you_."

Gently, reverently, Jaskier lifted the lute from Filavandrel out of the case and ran his fingers over the body, the neck, and strings.

"How did you ever find it?" Jaskier breathed, looking up at the witcher. His eyes were bright with burning emotions.

"I-" Geralt choked, because that day in Novigrad had been the first time he'd ever been forced to consider that Jaskier was _gone_ and he'd held onto his denial tightly. "Novigrad. Ciri and I were in Novigrad and it was in the shipwreck washing ashore."

"The Black Wing," Jaskier murmured, still tracing his hands over the lute. "Seems like Destiny, doesn't it?"

"Hmm?"

" _And the scrolls have foretold of black wings in the cold_?" Jaskier quoted looking up at him. "I thought you'd heard the prophecy?”

“I did. It’s why I went back to Caingorn, to Borch. I was thinking of _you_.”

Jaskier absently strummed the lute, and they both winced at the discordant note that rang out. Jaskier immediately set about tuning it, though he reached up again to touch one of the braids by his face.

What was it he had told Triss and the rest of them? _Sonaan_. What did it mean?

"The last braid. You keep touching it." Geralt asked, pulling Jaskier's eyes up off the lute as he tuned it.

Jaskier jerked as he realized his hand had been halfway between the instrument and his braids again and his eyes went wide a moment before a genuine, full smile broke across his face.

It took Jaskier a moment to answer as his eyes dropped back to the lute in his hands and his body shook as though he was crying.

"Bard," it came out relieved, somewhere between a laugh and a sob of relief. " _Sonaan_ is _dovahzul_ for _bard_."

Geralt found himself returning the smile with ease.

==

The return of the lute wasn't a magic fix-it either, but there were clear differences around the keep. Jaskier spoke more, smiled more. He still disappeared off to the broken tower he preferred to mediate in, but he could just as often be found up there plucking out a tune on his lute as meditating.

Training together and teaching Ciri lost an edge of tension they hadn't realized had been there since Jaskier's fight with Vesemir. He was more willing to utilize his _Thu'um_ and the magic unique to Skyrim. Fighting his conjurations was _fascinating_.

It was after dinner one night when Ciri approached the bard that Geralt realized he'd become more open when it came to discussing Skyrim.

"Jaskier?" She asked settling to sit at his feet as he looked up from the notebook he was writing it.

"Hmm?"

"Tell me something about Skyrim? Like, oh what was the most interesting place you visited?"

Jaskier looked up, his blue eyes bright with good humor.

"Most interesting in Skyrim?" He repeated setting the notebook aside as he mused on the question aloud. "I suppose that rules out the Soul Cairn or Sovngarde since they were both on other planes."

His gaze was distance, lips tugged into a thoughtful frown.

"Blackreach," he declared, looking at the princess with a smile. "Definitely Blackreach." 

"Well don't leave us hanging, Jaskier. What was so interesting about _Blackreach_?" Yennefer asked, moving closer to listen in, even as the witchers did as well.

Jaskier shot her a small smirk.

"Blackreach was a giant underground cavern that connected the ruins of three Dwemer cities. Ah, Dwemer were a race of elf that went extinct in Tamriel, but that's not actually important. So Blackreach was this massive cave system full of Dwemer ruins and ways to get into the three cities it connected, but it also had fresh water from several underground rivers. Veins of glittering gemstones seemed to be tucked around every corner and Dwemer metalwork that gleamed in the light available was woven along the pathways. But perhaps most spectacular of all were the mushrooms."

"Mushrooms?" Lambert snorted.

"Mushrooms that glowed and grew taller than this keep," Jaskier replied with a pointed look before turning his gaze back to Cirilla. "The entire cavern felt like night when you were there, but it always glowed in teal and blue. The roof of the cavern was dotted with a rare ore and it looked like the stars in the sky. It was truly beautiful. In one part of the cavern was a hall that looked like it was used for debates and in the courtyard was a glowing orange sun of sorts. But it wasn't a sun."

"A giant lantern to act as the sun in an underground space?" Eskel asked, trying to picture it.

"It was a trap. A cage. There was a dragon inside of it, Vulthuryol. He'd been trapped for a very long time, I think."

"Did you go there often?" Ciri asked. "To Blackreach?"

Jaskier shook his head, no.

"Just twice, to be honest. The first time we were searching for a- well, an item we needed to fight Alduin. The second time I was helping a friend and Blackreach was the only spot to gather the rare ingredient she needed. It wasn't an easy journey to find the entrances and even when we did, they were filled with creatures that weren't exactly friendly."

"I have so many questions, I'll admit," Yennefer said sounding slightly embarrassed about that fact.

"What if," Jaskier began, but halted. "What if you each ask one question? If I am able, I'll answer."

"If?" Geralt asked, but Jaskier shook his head.

"I wasn't there that long, there's a lot about their Sphere I don't know. And… well, there are some things I just _can't_ share, I'm sure you understand."

"A fair agreement. I'd like to go first, if I may," Vesemir said moving to sit with the group more properly, though he'd clearly been listening to Jaskier speak of Blackreach. When nobody contested he looked Jaskier in the eye. "Tell me about the people of Skyrim."

"The actual Nords and their culture or the different races there?"

Vesemir grimaced slightly.

"Both if it's not too much to ask."

Jaskier nodded.

"Right, well if I haven't made it clear Skyrim is just one nation within Tamriel. I didn't get to travel much outside of Skyrim except for the island of Solstheim which is sort of shared with Morrowind. The humans native to Skyrim are known as the Nords. They're remarkably similar to the people of the Northern Kingdoms here. My mentor and I discussed it at length and speculated if that's why I was born here but still was _Dovahkiin_ , because our Spheres are so similar and have touched before."  
"During the Conjunction," Yennefer realized.

"Before that even, during an event known as the Dragon Break," Jaskier stopped and shook his head. "That's not something I know enough about to get into. Skyrim is home to the Nords and is like our Continent. The other humans come from Cyrodiil, the Imperials, and Hammerfell, the Redguards. I don't know much about either place but most of the Imperials I met were part of the force there fighting against Skyrim's Stormcloaks for control. I guess Cyrodiil had their own big catastrophe years ago where a god tried to enter their capitol city."

Here he shook his head again.

"I'm getting off topic. The Bretons from High Rock are mostly human, but have elvish ancestry as well. They're very good at magic from what I know, but that's about it. There were elves native to Skyrim at one point, the Falmer or Snow Elves, but they don't really exist anymore. I may have met the last true Snow Elf in my travels, but I hope for his sake that he isn't the only one out there, and he considers what the Falmer became to be something entirely different than a Snow Elf. Skyrim also had a population of Dwemer, the dwarves or Deep Elves, but something happened to them _long_ before I arrived. There's word that they just up and vanished one day, but nobody knows for sure.

“The other elves are the Altmer, or High Elves from the Summerset Isles, most of whom were right assholes when I met them, but I suspect a lot of that had to do with the war. The Bosmer, Wood Elves, from Valenwood, were expert hunters and trappers. Learned a lot about Archery from several Bosmer. The Dunmer, or Dark Elves, from Morrowind were actually invited to Skyrim after the Red Mountain exploded and covered most of their country in deep ashfall. Ulfric hated them though. The Orsimer, the Orcs, are either mer or Beastfolk, it's still up for debate, and their homeland is right on the border between Hammerfell and High Rock but it's not its own country from what I pieced together. They had strongholds through Skyrim and were mostly left alone.

“Then there's the Beastfolk, which I admit I was a little confused and quite possibly rather rude with the first Khajiit and Argonians I met, but I also had no idea what they were. The Khajiit are from a desert far to the south in Tamriel called Elsweyr and are like cats?"

"Is that a question?" Lambert asked.

“No, I'm just trying to decide if it's a good enough description. In _Dovahzul_ the word is the same for cat and Khajiit though, so cats, I guess. The Argonians from Black Marsh are like lizard people," He winced at his own inarticulate description. "Great swimmers, tough skin. Often work on docks and with the fisheries."

Jaksier paused, his expression thoughtful before he looked over at Vesemir.

"Is that enough?"

Vesemir nodded.

"Yes, for now. Thank you."

"Toughest thing you fought, dragons excluded," Lambert demanded.

"There were these…priests. From the Dragon War. Dead but not, and they had been gifted magic from the dragons during the war that they kept even in death. There were eight in Skyrim and three more in Solstheim and I hated every single one I had to fight. Each had unique, powerful magic. And being undead they were just generally a pain in the ass. They were also almost always flanked by either Draugr or Dragons. Draugr, especially the Deathlords, could be tough fights as well. Ancient Nord warriors, reincarnated through magic I don't understand, nor do I really want to. Enchanted to protect the crypts."

"Saw a lot of crypts did you?"

Jaskier gave a funny little laugh.

"Most of the _Rotmulaag_ are learned via walls inscribed with their power. And those walls are often written for the Nord dead. So you can imagine where I spent a lot of time traveling to find them."

"Raiding tombs? Must have made for a good song or two," Yennefer remarked.

" _In the shadows of Bleak Falls sits fair Riverwood_

_Ignoring the ancients that beckon_

_And none heed the call, for none dare want to learn_

_The terrible, terrifying lesson._ "

Yennefer smirked even as Jaskier shrugged.

"Most of the Nord ruins were fairly similar, so unless there was a particularly interesting hero attached to it they weren't worth writing about. Bleak Falls was just special to me I guess."

"Any reason why?" Eskel asked.

"Learned my first _Rotmulaag_ there. _Fus_ , Force. And cleared out some bandits that had been bothering Riverwood, but that's not part of Lambert's question."

"My turn," Yennefer chimed in. "Magic in Skyrim is different, clearly, as there's no Chaos. Tell me about it."

"That's a bit of an open question, and I'm hardly an expert."

"They made you _Arch-Mage_. Surely that title has some significance if you wear it alongside your others."

Jaskier sighed, his gaze up at the ceiling.

"In Skyrim, everyone has the ability to cast magic. Not everyone is _good_ at it, nor does everyone bother to learn, but everyone _can_. The College of Winterhold, where the mages study, is actually a bit of a sore point. Long before I went to Skyrim there was an event known as the Great Collapse which destroyed most of the city of Winterhold and dropped it into the Sea of Ghosts and they've never really recovered from it. They blamed the College which had remained mostly intact and, well that was that.

“I went to Winterhold because it has one of the finest libraries you've ever seen and I wanted to know more about Skyrim and the Dragonborn prophecy. To gain access I first had to enroll as a student, so I did. There are five Schools of Magic as well as Enchanting and potion making, which they call Alchemy. I'm a fair hand for Enchanting, and I learned the basics of all of the schools. Destruction for offensive combat magic, Restoration for healing, Alteration for manipulating the physical world, Illusion for stealth, and Conjuration for summoning."

Jaskier twined his fingers as he spoke, his hand coated in different magic as he explained the schools. Fire for Destruction, gold light for Restoration, an odd bronze for Alteration, pale blue mist for Illusion, and that black-violet void that preceded calling upon his Bound Weapons. True to form, the ghostly dagger appeared in his hand, as solid as any other weapon in Kaer Morhen. He dispelled it again with a flourish.

"The College frowns on Necromancy, but doesn’t outright ban it, and you can find practitioners all across Skyrim. And similar to here, each Jarl has a court wizard as one of their advisors, some from the College, some not. All of the people of Skyrim, Man, Mer, and Beastfolk alike have their own innate magic as well. It's really just part of life there, whether you focus on it or not." 

He met Yennefer's interested gaze.

"There's not much I can tell you beyond that. My magic is obviously intact here, but I doubt you'd find it that useful or interesting compared to what you're capable."

"Don't sell yourself short, bard. I can't summon women of fire."

Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Atronach. It's a flame atronach."

"I'd like to know what was most different, at least from what you saw," Eskel piped up, hoping to cut off an argument or bickering between the bard and the witch.

"Most different?" Jaskier murmured. "It was always rather odd in how familiar it felt. As if our Sphere had taken a step to the left. Similar but just _off_ in ways. Men and elves at conflict but not quite like it is here. All shapes of beasts and monsters, creatures I've seen and I know but still not the same. Even the music…I'd walk into a tavern and there would be a local bard singing and the instruments, the style, was all easy to recognize but I didn't know any of the songs being played."

He sighed and leaned his head back, his gaze distant and not quite looking at any of them.

"We- I didn't really keep track of time with how much I spent moving around so I'd frequently find myself traversing the country at all hours of the day and night, stealing rest when I could and moving when I couldn't. And it never failed to surprise me, to remind me that no matter how similar Skyrim was it wasn't home. Not when there were two moons in the sky."

" _Two_ moons?" Ciri exclaimed.

Jaskier nodded.

"One larger and one smaller. Masser and Secunda. Skyrim's sky was brilliant, as unfamiliar as it was. But the sight of two moons. Never got used to that."

Geralt opened his mouth, closed it, then at Ciri's nudging asked his question.

"What do you regret the most?"

Because he had theories. Leaving, for one, even if it was Destiny. It had been a hard place but Jaskier had clearly _thrived_ there. Found his own destiny. Maybe he had fallen in love and left someone behind? He loved easily, could be loved easily. He'd been a leader, Arch-Mage of the College. He could have stayed and studied more magic perhaps. Or one of his other titles? Harbinger. Nightingale. They were clearly significant and he had left them behind.

His own speculations ran rampant as Jaskier looked down at his hands, now clenched in his lap and white knuckled. There was a tightness to his mouth and his hair fell forward, partially obscuring his expression.

"Two thousand four hundred ninety-seven," he murmured low.

"What?"

Without looking up, hands still clenched tightly.

"The number of people - men, women, mer, and beastfolk. The number I killed."

Geralt could only stare in shock.

His words were met with a silence that was short lived and he pushed himself to his feet and grabbed the notebook he'd set aside, quickly leaving the room with a rough "Excuse me.”

==

Jaskier dropped the axe with a clatter on the stone of the keep, even as the dragon’s roar shook the building. He barely heard it over the blood roaring in his ears.

The Imperial woman, the one who’d called his name for the executioner’s block lay dead, dead, dead. Because of him, he had killed her.

The Stormcloak, Ralof, seemed unbothered. He was a soldier, fighting a war against these people even, but still. There was so much blood.

“Maybe one of these Imperials had the key,” the rebel remarked, looking through the pockets of the guard who had also entered the room.

Jaskier swallowed and knelt down, his knees soaking through with the blood of the (dead) woman.

On her person was, in fact, a heavy iron key that looked to match the gates of the keep, and a sturdy iron dagger. More familiar with the small weapon than the axe, he took it and pressed it flat against his chest for a moment as he looked at the woman and closed his eyes.

 _I’m sorry_. He thought. _I didn’t want to._

Want and need were two very different things. No wonder Geralt only hunted monsters.

He followed the blue-clad soldier through the keep. Through more Imperials. By the time he and Ralof made it past the slumbering bear and out of the cave to fresh air and bright daylight Jaskier had aided or been responsible for the deaths of eight people. Eight humans. Dead. Because of him.

 _I didn’t want to_. He thought numbly as the soldier advised him where to go, before taking off.

Jaskier blinked at the sunshine and clear sky. It felt odd after the darkness of the cave and the keep. It felt wrong on his skin with the blood on his hands and borrowed clothing.

Everything about it felt wrong.

== 

There was a man, trapped in the spider’s webbing. No, Jaskier realized peering around the corner. An _elf_. An unusual, grey-skinned elf.

“Is… is someone coming? Is that you Harknir?” Jaskier glanced up at a rustling sound as the elf continued to call out. “Not again! Kill it! Kill it! Get me out of here!”

Jaskier spun around the corner and aimed at the shadow falling from the ceiling with the bow he’d found. He wasn’t a perfect shot by any means, but his childhood lessons came back easily enough, and allowed him to keep his distance from the spitting arachnid.

“You. Over here! You did it, you killed it!” Jaskier approached and frowned at the elf’s glimmering red eyes.

“Who are you?”

“Arvel. Now cut me down! Before anything _else_ shows up!”

Jaskier could feel his lips twitch at the dramatic exclamations, but pulled the dagger from belt, but paused before he began cutting the webbing.

“The golden claw,” he prompted, recalling the thieves at the entrance discussing it. Stealing it.

“Yes, yes. The claw. The markings. The door. I know how it works. Cut me down, and I’ll show you!”

“Fine, fine,” Jaskier muttered, taking his dagger to the webbing.

“It’s coming loose!” The elf crowed.

As the last bit of webbing fell away, Arvel shoved as Jaskier and sprinted off into the crypt.

“You fool! Why would I share the treasure with anyone?”

“Because I just saved your life,” Jaskier growled, giving chase into the crypt. From the moment he’d stepped foot inside he could feel a power and presence calling him deeper. His better senses told him it was the exact kind of thing he should avoid, but Jaskier could admit he could never turn down a good story.

“Stop! You don’t know what’s in here!” He called after the elf, only to watch in horror as a mottled, corpse-like creature stood up from its resting place and pierced the elf with its blade.

Jaskier readied his bow and let arrows fly until the creature was within melee range, then leapt at it with his dagger. It fell to the ground, the eerie glow of magic in its eyes fading.

He hurried over to the elf, still alive, but his gray skin was ashen and he was choking on blood.

“Why,” Jaskier asked looking at the bloody wound. “I tried- I _helped_ you. _Why_?”

“Nothing personal,” Arvel croaked around a mouthful of blood. “Just business, friend.”

With a clumsy hand, the thief pushed the golden claw into Jaskier’s own before slumping back, his last breath escaping him.

Jaskier bowed his head.

He may not have killed Arvel, but he couldn’t save him either.

It felt just as bad.

==

“Never should have come here!”

Jaskier glanced over at Vilkas who was already pulling his greatsword over his shoulder and sighed. Bandits were part of life on the road in Skyrim, but you would think by now word would have spread enough…

Well. Coin was a powerful motivator.

“I’ll carve you into pieces!” The Companion shouted, running to the nearest bandit.

Jaskier slipped under the guard of the one closest to himself and pushed his dagger through the leather and into the bandit’s chest, all the way to the hilt. The body slipped off his blade as he turned to the next one, only to catch an arrow in his arm.

“Time to die, hero!”

Maybe they _did_ know who he was then.

Jaskier inhaled.

“ ** _Yol toor shul_**!” He Shouted, fire catching the two closest, the archer avoiding it narrowly. She sent another shot whizzing over his head.

“Die, damn you!” She shouted.

“ ** _Wuld_**!” _Whirlwind Sprint_ took him right beside her and his dagger narrowly missed her neck, catching a gash across her back. She stumbled forward and turned and drew a dagger from her own belt.

“This isn’t over!”

“It is,” Jaskier intoned, spinning out of the way of her strike, and hitting her rapidly across her chest with quick swings. She staggered back and fell to her knees.

“Mercy! I cannot best you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have tried,” Jaskier replied, taking pity only by making her death as quick as possible. Vilkas walked over after the last bandit near him had been dispatched.

“That’s the last of them.”

Jaskier scoffed.

“Hardly. They’re like weeds. Everywhere you go, and no matter how many you put down, they keep coming back.”

Vilkas clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“These ones won’t be bothering anyone else, though. You shouldn’t feel bad.”

“Perhaps not.”

As the Companion walked back to the road, Jaskier looked at the bandits and mentally added them to his tally.

It didn’t matter if they deserved it or not. His hand had made the judgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mul gah diiv_ : Literally, strength armor wyrm. Dragon Aspect, a shout that gives an armor bonus, decreases shout cooldowns (not really applicable in this fic ) and increases shout strength.  
>  _Su grah dun_ : Literally, air battle grace. Elemental Fury, a shout that adds speed to any melee weapons and bows (but not crossbows).  
>  _Fus_ : Force (Unrelenting Force)  
>  _Wuld_ : Whirlwind (Whirlwind Sprint)  
>  _Wo lost fron wah ney dov ahrik fin reyliik do jul voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein_ : Who was kin to both wyrm and the races of man, with a power to rival the sun. I am rather partial to this line which is why it crops up several times.  
>  _Zun hal viik_ : Literally, weapon hand defeat. Disarm, a shout that pulls weapons from an enemy's hands.  
>  _Wuld nah kest_ : Literally, Whirlwind fury tempest. Whirlwind Sprint.  
>  _Zu'u ni faas hi_ : I do not fear you.  
>  _Brit grah_ : Beautiful battle, to express a good fight.  
>  _Qostiid sahlo aak_ : Prophecy is a weak guide.  
>  _Dov_ : Dragons  
>  _Onikaan ni ov dovah_ : Wisdom is not trusting a dragon.  
>  _Yol toor shul_ : Literally, fire inferno sun. Fire Breath.
> 
> Let's be honest. Jaskier would walk into Markarth, be told "don't ask questions" and immediately start asking questions.
> 
> 2497: This number is the actual people kill count from my most recent Skyrim playthrough.
> 
> And now, an omake brought to you by [THIS](https://www.reddit.com/r/MxRMods/comments/gc37im/they_are_a_proud_and_fancy_race) meme.  
>    
> "Toughest thing you fought, dragons excluded," Lambert demanded.  
>    
> Jaskier met his gaze and was silent for a long moment.  
>    
> "Mudcrabs," he finally said looking away. His expression was distressed and pinched. His voice low and solemn. "Mudcrabs."  
>    
> "…mudcrabs?" Lambert repeated, glancing around at the others who, like him, were visibly confused.  
>    
> "They are a proud and fancy race," Jaskier intoned without any hint of humor or deception.


	8. HAHNU (Dream)

It only took a moment after Jaskier had retreated from the hall for everyone to look toward Geralt in expectation, though their shock was still evident on their faces.

“Well?” Vesemir asked.

Geralt only shot him a confused glance.

“Geralt!” Ciri cried. “Go after him!”

The white haired witcher didn’t need to be told twice and bolted after the bard.

Jaskier’s quick, silent steps made tracking through scent the easiest way to follow him and Geralt breathed every time the halls of the keep intersected. He followed where the storm smell, laced with fire and ice and hinting of chamomile was the strongest.

The trail took him down into the depths of the keep. To an area Geralt was loathe to revisit.

An area where three out of ten boys would return from.

Geralt suppressed a shudder and focused on the familiar chamomile that still clung to Jaskier’s natural scent.

He steadfastly ignored the closed doors of areas of the keep better left untouched and continued down a dark hall, to a part of Kaer Morhen largely left in disrepair. Jaskier was standing a short ways down the hallway, but wasn’t looking at him. Instead, he was peering down a dark, crumbling hall well beneath the keep, head slightly cocked and intensely focused.

"Jaskier!"

"Can you hear it?" He murmured, not paying any real attention to Geralt.

"Hear…what?"

"It can't be," Jaskier murmured, pulling away and heading into the darkness.

"Jaskier. _Jaskier!_ " Geralt cursed before moving to follow. “Damn it!”

The Dragonborn paid him no mind, moving swiftly and without hesitation through winding halls that only got darker as they went.

"We need a light, Jaskier. We can go back and grab a torch and-"

Absently, Jaskier flicked his wrist and an orb of silvery light appeared over their heads, lighting the dark hall. It was barren and dust covered from years of disuse, pieces of rock and stone crumbling still long after the sacking.

They hit a dead end and Geralt opened his mouth, ready to implore they go back when he stopped.

Because he could hear it too. The chanting. The chanting in the language Jaskier often slipped into, words that were both familiar and not because he'd heard them before, from Jaskier. Had heard them when Ciri spoke the prophecy and again when Vesemir tried to use _Axii_ against Jaskier during their fight. 

Words spoken in _Dovahzul_.

" ** _Qethsegol vahrukiv laat dovahkiin. Faal sonaan wunduniik, wo mu dahmaan ol Zulnehdir_** _._ "

"What the fuck."

"It's a Word Wall," Jaskier breathed, still looking at the solid stone wall. "Here. But _how_?"

"What the fuck are you doing down here?" Lambert's voice came echoing down the hall, the sound heard well before it was followed by the warm glow of torchlight. "It's not safe, you _shouldn’t_ be down here and- what the fuck am I hearing."

He stopped, startled, head snapping around quickly to identify the source.

"A wall, apparently," Geralt replied, not quite understanding. He knew the walls had to do with the Words of Power, had to do with Shouts.

"A talking…wall."

"A Word Wall," Jaskier said, peering around the darkness. "For a _Rotmulaag_. Ah, _there_ you are. Lambert, bring your torch here." 

"Don't tell me what to do, bard. And why not just use your fancy light anyway?"

"Because I'm going to recast it to see what's inside this hole."

"What the fuck."

Lambert moved over with his torch and sure enough a small opening was in the rock wall, barely big enough for an arm to reach through.

"Yeah, I'm not putting my arm in that."

Jaskier snorted, but twined silvery light around his hand and cast the light spell through the opening, the one over their heads winking out of existence as he did.

"What the _fuck_ ," Jaskier breathed, and Geralt and Lambert could agree, though they didn't quite understand why. Through the small opening the light illuminated a small chamber, nearly filled with a strange contraption of bronze and teal glass.

"The fuck is that?" Lambert asked, shoving at Geralt to peer through the small opening.

"It's a tonal resonator," Jaskier sounded awed.

"A _what_?"

"It's a type of door lock, built by the Dwemer."

"Why the _fuck_ is there a door lock from a dead race not of our Sphere in Kaer Morhen?" Lambert asked plaintively.

"Guess we'll find out," Jaskier said. There was a quick hum of energy and Geralt knew he'd cast another spell, glancing over confirmed it. Jaskier held a ghostly bow in both hands and shifted to aim through the small opening.

"Jaskier, what are you doing?"

"Opening the door."

With that, he loosed an arrow through the narrow hole in the wall; a deep tone rang out as the arrow struck true, like the ringing of a bell.

A rumble behind them had the three turning and covering their heads as dirt and dust shook loose with the hidden door sliding downwards and opening another passageway. Lambert held out his torch but didn't move through.

Jaskier gave a half laugh and tossed the light spell through the door where it revealed an empty hallway briefly before sticking on the other side, the glow it gave off illuminating the strange, arched hall. Jaskier stepped through the open door and fire blazed to life in stone braziers lining the chamber. Lambert and Geralt stepped into the hall behind him, both looking at the carved images on the walls.

"Fucking magic," Geralt grumbled.

"What is this?" Lambert asked, running a hand over the intricate stonework.

"The Hall of Stories. A shrine of sorts to the Nord gods," Jaskier replied, moving through the hall to the far side and paying no attention to the animalistic humans depicted on the walls.

"Another dead end?" Geralt asked, looking at the far wall. There was a circle of intricate knots carved in the stone and the outline of a dragon in the center.

"Usually there's another type of lock here, before the final chamber. At least, that's how most of the Nord tombs were. I've seen this before," Jaskier murmured, crouching to inspect a different circle beneath his feet, one of thick lines curved and cutting. "A Blood Seal. I wonder."

"Jaskier!"

Geralt couldn't get to him fast enough and Jaskier had summoned his ghostly dagger, drew a slash across his palm and pressed the blood to the seal beneath his feet as the witcher slid to a stop beside the circular sign on the floor.

The hall shook as the wall rumbled out of the way, even more dramatically than the previous hidden door.

The chanting grew louder.

"You idiot, we don't have any supplies!" Geralt grasped the bleeding hand even as a sound like tinkling bells filled his ears and a golden light wrapped around the hand he was holding.

Right. Restoration magic.

Geralt dropped the hand.

"Forgot you could do that."

Jaskier snorted, then summoned his ghostly bow into his hands again and entered the next chamber more carefully.

"Expecting trouble?" Lambert drawled, following behind.

"In my experience, Word Walls are guarded by Draugr, Dragon Priests, or Dragons. You'll forgive me for being cautious."

Geralt withdrew the only weapon he currently had on him, a knife perpetually tucked into his boot, and saw Lambert prep an _Igni_ beside him.

The open chamber of arching stone and dark carvings of beast heads was unfamiliar and oddly lit as they walked up the stone stairs towards the ever growing chanting. Above them loomed a curved wall, the head of a dragon prominently in the center and four rows of what looked like claw marks beneath it.

The claw marks were glowing.

The bottom line was glowing brightest of all.

"Jaskier?"

Jaskier didn't respond, his bow vanishing as he approached the wall, hand out stretched as his eyes flickered across the glowing slashes. Words?

"It can't be," he breathed, his hand not quite connecting with the brightest of the words.

"Jaskier?" Geralt tried again. "What is this?"

"This wall … it's about _me._ "

"You understand it?"

"It's _Dovahzul_ ," he replied absently, still looking at the wall, hand outstretched but not touching. " _Qethsegol vahrukiv laat dovahkiin. Faal sonaan wunduniik, wo mu dahmaan ol Zulnehdir._ "

He pulled away, taking shaky steps back even as his eyes never left the words.

"This stone commemorates the Last Dragonborn. The traveling bard, who we remember as The Unending Voice. That's my name. That's my _name_."

==

“A name?” Jaskier asked, looking up at Paarthurnax, as the other dragons free of Alduin’s lies soared overhead. “But, _Dovahkiin_ don’t get names in _Dovahzul_.”

“Not all, no,” Paarthurnax agreed, nodding his great head. “But you have _earned_ the right to be named. To call and be called.”

Jaskier stared at him for a moment before a small grin found its way on his face.

“I’m honored, _kinbok_.”

“As you should be,” the red and white form of Odahviing landed on the snow beside the wall. “It is indeed a great honor for a mortal to be named. But in this we agree, _mal zeymah_. You are _dovah_ and should be called as _dovah_.”

“And… what will my name be?” Jaskier asked looking between the two dragons.

“ _Hin Dovahzin los Zulnehdir_!” Paarthurnax roared to the sky. The celebrating dragons roared back. Jaskier felt the call of his name tremble though him.

 _Zulnehdir_. The Unending Voice.

Jaskier’s grin widened.

==

"Or," Lambert drawled, shaking him from his memory, "it’s someone else who had the same name as you."

Jaskier shook his head, even as his eyes ran over the brightly glowing words over and over.  
"Dragonborn are given titles, nicknames even. But a true _Dovahzin_ , a Dragon Name, is a rare honor - I only know of two mortals who were named. _Dovahzin_ are used to call upon other dragons over a great distance. There's never been another _Zulnehdir_ and there never will be. Paarthurnax gifted my name, so how is it _here_?"

"You already fought Alduin, perhaps it appeared here when you did?" Geralt suggested, hesitating for a moment before resting a reassuring hand on Jaskier's shoulder.

"With how old this place looks?" Lambert commented, hefting his torch a little higher.

"That's just it," Jaskier murmured. "I _haven't_ fought him yet. That's why I'm here - to send him back to Skyrim so I _can_ defeat him." 

Lambert and Geralt turned sharply to him surprise.

"What?"

Jaskier shook his head.

"It's…hard to explain. When I went to Skyrim, Alduin had already fought me here. He knew me, recognized me even. They call it a _Tiid-Ahraan_ , a Time-Wound for a reason."

"You…also said he was defeated the first time with a dangerous artefact that existed outside of time. An Elder Scroll."

"Not defeated," Jaskier murmured, eyes still fixed on the wall in front of him. "Sent away. Cast out through time."

"Jaskier," Geralt tensed with realization. "Do you - is it _here_? Do you have an Elder Scroll?"

"Yes," he admitted. Head dropping, shoulders tense. "I have the Dragon scroll with me. I'm not here to fight Alduin - I'm here to send him back to Skyrim." 

"…where you've already defeated him." 

"Where I'm _going_ to defeat him," Jaskier's wide eyes turned to Geralt. "Do you see? What's already happened for me hasn't happened for Alduin. And what happens here he'd already seen and lived through when I reached Skyrim. The damage wrought by sending Alduin out of Skryim the first time created a Time-Wound, one I’ve been through. _That_ is why I’m here. To mend it."

Geralt jerked back.

Jaskier looked back toward the glowing word wall and spoke a single word.

“Paarthurnax.”

==

Jaskier had rushed from the depths, even as Lambert and Geralt tried to keep up. Lambert had split off to explain to Vesemir what they had found while Geralt followed Jaskier out of the keep proper and into the open courtyard. Snow was falling heavily and the cold was biting, but Jaskier seemed oblivious as he tipped his head back to the sky and-

“ ** _Durnehviir_**!”

For a moment, only the echo of the Shout on the wind was heard, and then, a different cry, echoing back. A dragon’s roar. Fierce. Proud. _Terrifying_.

A shadow passed overhead before landing on the wall of the keep and Geralt stared at the strange dragon who landed there.

The beast looked sickly, covered in a strange-greenish tint that resembled decay and cobwebs both. He rumbled his greeting.

“ _Qahnaarin_. You have returned to your land.”

“I have. Durnehviir, I need to speak with Paarthurnax.”

“Yet, you call me.”

“He said the call was not likely to work for him or Odahviing from this place, but you can hear my call from the Cairn, as could Arvak.”

“Ah, _mindoraan._ You wish to pass a message. But I cannot return to _Keizaal_ without being called.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“You don’t need to,” Jaskier insisted. “Valerica. She can get the message to Serana.”

“The _nahgahdinok_? You would have her carry the message?”

“ _Nid_. _Monii_.”

“ _Hi fahdon_. _Geh_. I will send your message. What do you wish me _tinvaak_?”

Jaskier shook his head again.

“It’s too complex. I can’t- I _need_ to speak with Paarthurnax directly. I’m certain he can find a way.”

“For you, _Dovahkiin_ , I will do this.”

The dragon flapped once, twice, and dissolved into nothing.

Jaskier let out a deep breath and turned back to the keep, his face red from the cold, the others were all gathered and staring in shock.

“I-”

He shut his mouth firmly and looked to the ground. His thumbs and forefingers rubbing together in a familiar, nervous gesture that Geralt was almost relieved to see.

He took the bard by the arm.

“We’ll discuss this inside,” he stated aloud to no arguments and led the way into the keep.

In the main hall beside a roaring fire, he pushed Jaskier down into a chair, where the bard immediately buried his face into his hands. His distress was clearly evident.

There was a long silence where everyone kept their distance, before Ciri finally approached and crouched down in front of him.

“Jaskier?”

Blue eyes peaked through his fingers.

“Sometimes it really does help to talk about it,” she offered.

Jaskier blew out a harsh breath and pulled his hands away from his face, looking up at the high ceiling.

“I just realized what Alduin meant, and how cursed my destiny is,” he stated, before standing up from the chair and pacing a long line near the fire. “ _Nu hin sil dii. Gro ulse._ ”

He took a shuddering breath.

“ _Zu’u unslaad. Zu’u nis oblaan._ ”

Jaskier froze in his pacing, eyes shut tightly, before he opened them and looked down at clenched hands.

“Your soul is mine, bound forever. I am eternal, I cannot end.”

Wide blue eyes turned to sweep across those watching him.

“If Alduin cannot die and is destined to end the world, and I am bound to him to stop him – are we locked in this cycle forever?”

Nobody had an answer for him.

==

Durnehviir was cursed to the Soul Cairn by the Ideal Masters, but the _Dovahkiin_ had shown his power and triumphed in their battle. And then, not needing to, he honored the cursed dragon’s request to be called into the living realm, to give Durnehviir the chance to spread his wings in the fair skies over Skyrim once more.

For this, he would heed the Dragonborn’s call. For this, he would pass the message to Paarthurnax.

“ _Nahgahdinok,_ ” he rumbled at the small figure on the staircase. She glanced at him and looked away. “Valerica.”

“How do you know my name, Cursed One?”

“The _qahnaarin_ asks you to send a message with your _mon_.”

“I do not speak your words, dragon.”

Durnehviir growled. Humans, even cursed ones, were such fickle creatures.

“The _fahdon_ , friend of your child. Who came here. He needs to send a message to Skyrim and your aid is requested.”

Valerica looked momentarily confused.

“The man with my daughter? Why?”

Durnehviir shook his great head.

“He is elsewhere. His destiny is tied to Alduin. You can leave this place. Send message to your child. She will help him.”

Valerica frowned at him for a long moment.

“And what message am I passing along?”

“The Dragonborn must speak with Paarthurnax.”

“I do not understand.”

Durnehviir roared. The woman merely glared at him.

“This is the message. Your daughter will understand.”

“Fine,” the woman spat. “I will pass this to my daughter. But I make no promise to you. And I am only agreeing because Serana trusted the man and he fulfilled his promise to aid her.”

The cursed dragon nodded his great head.

“Acceptable.”

The woman turned away, gathering a few scrolls and potions before walking down the stairs.

“I will… inform you. Once I have passed along your message.”

Not waiting for Durnehviir to acknowledge her, she strode away through the dark, barren landscape of the Soul Cairn.

Serana was, expectedly, not in the Castle when Valerica emerged through the portal. Cured of her Vampirism and preferring to explore the world as it was, even without the strange man who’d stood by her side. Serana returned to her childhood home every so often only to say hello to her mother, a novelty after the centuries she’d slept in Dimhollow Crypt.

“Mother.”

Her daughter strode into the courtyard through the side entrance a few days later. Valerica’s heart, if it still beat, would have clenched that her daughter had to sneak around her home.

Serana’s decision to be cured was a point of contention amongst the remaining Volkihar vampires. On the one hand, she and her strange companion had removed Harkon from power, but she had renounced their gift to become _mortal._

Still, she didn’t seem to mind. Seemed so much happier and content with exploring Skyrim and beyond.

“Serana.”

Valerica hesitated. Serana noticed immediately.

“Is…everything all right?” She asked, glancing around the courtyard.

“Oh, yes. Of course. It’s just. Your friend? Asked me to pass a message to you.”

“My friend?” Serana seemed confused, her brow furrowing in confusion.

“The one you brought to the Soul Cairn.”

“Jaskier sent you a message?” Serana sounded incredulous.

“The dragon. In the Soul Cairn. He passed it to me.”

A look of understanding crossed her daughter’s face.

“Jaskier called Durnehviir to him from his world, and Durnehviir gave the message to you knowing you could leave the Cairn and get it to me. Clever. Very clever, Jas.” Her daughter looked at her. “What was the message?”

“He needs to speak to a Paarthurnax?”

“Paarthurnax? Does he expect me to go to High Hrothgar?” Serana said more to herself than to her mother. “He does. He really does. Damn, but I do miss his _Thu’um_ for times like these.”

“What?” Valerica couldn’t help but interject.

“Oh, did we not tell you? Jaskier is Dragonborn. We used to use his Voice to echo back to places we’d already been. Sure beat traveling through the sun and Skyrim weather. As it is, it’ll be a long journey to Ivarstead, I should go.”

“Already?”

“Mother, Jaskier saved me, helped me defeat my father. The things we went through…I owe him this much.”

“I understand,” Valerica nodded.

Serana exited the courtyard as quickly as she came.

Days later, Serana would be cursing Jaskier as she made the final steps up to High Hrothgar. She could only hope Arngeir would remember her and let her pass. To her immense surprise, he met her in the hall as soon as she passed through the heavy door of the Greybeards’ keep.

“We’ve been expecting you.”

“Dare I ask how?”

“Our leader heard whispers that a friend of the Dragonborn was making her way here, with his name on her lips.”

“Right,” she pushed her hood back. “Do you remember me, Arngeir?”

“I admit I do not recall your name, but I know you are a friend of the Dragonborn.”

“Serana. Jaskier sent me to send a message to Paarthurnax. May I pass?”

“A message? But the Dragonborn is-”

“Back in his world, I know. He summoned the Cursed One from the Soul Cairn, Durnehviir. The dragon gave the message to … well, a necromancer I know. One with access to the Soul Cairn. She passed the message to me, and now I’m here and would like to deliver it to Paarthurnax.”

He looked at her blandly.

“Please,” she added.

“I will clear the way to the Throat of the World for you. Paarthurnax will hear the words from the Dragonborn.”

“Thank you,” Serana breathed, following the man through the building and outside to where the others were scattered around, their Voices all thunder echoing off the mountain and through the air.

It made her miss Jaskier’s cheerful presence. She wondered if the cursed dragon would carry a message back the next time he was called, if she asked.

“ ** _Lok vah koor_**.”

Arngeir’s shout settled the howling winds and he stood by the edge of the trail that led to the summit.

“The way is clear, but you must be quick. Paarthurnax waits.”

Serana nodded and moved up the mountain, hands twined with magic just in case. Skyrim’s mountains were full of all sorts of unpleasant monsters, hiding in the blinding snow for the unaware traveler. The glow of her magic faded as she crested the mountain to a familiar Word Wall and the old dragon perched upon it turned his head to her.

“Ah yes, the _sos kiir_.”

Serana’s expression tightened. The old dragon had always called her that after the first time she had come here with Jaskier. Blood child.

“Not anymore,” she said.

He laughed at her. Laughed.

“What brings you to me?”

“Jaskier sent word with Durnehviir through the Soul Cairn. He said he needs to speak with you. Said you might be able to figure out a way.”

“Hmm. I will _morah_. I do not doubt there is a way. Come, _sos kiir_ , sit.”

Serana moved to the spot the dragon indicated with his grizzled head and knelt the way Jaskier always did when he was puzzling through a problem or question.

She knew the names of dragons were special, could be used to call each other across great distances even, but to call from another world? Was that even possible? The Soul Cairn almost made sense, since it was a place for the dead, but what else could connect the worlds? Time? The sky? A dream?

Serana looked up at the dragon and blurted it out, her fair skin tinting red as she cursed herself for behaving like a child.

“A dream?”

Paarthurnax lowered his head to look at her.

“Hmm. _Halvut ko hahnu._ This is a possibility. Miraak, the first, would _Bend Will_ in this way.”

“You don’t have to remind me,” Serana shuddered, remembering the people of Solstheim, trapped by Miraak’s strange spell at night. How they repeated his words, his mantra. How they worked without control of their minds or actions. Trapped. Only because of her close proximity to Jaskier and the fierce retaliation of his _soul_ was she unaffected whenever she fell into an uneasy sleep at night on the island. She always woke up with her mouth dry and that chant, the one always whispering around Jaskier, those words of the prophecy fading through her waking dreams.

“Will it work?” Serana wondered.

“ _Tiid_ will reveal all. Return now, _kiir_. I will seek our _Dovahkiin_ in his _hahnu_.”

Serana frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it and nodded. She had gotten Jaskier’s message to Paarthurnax. Now she could only wait and see if the dragon could return it. Wait. And hope.

==

Jaskier was restless. In some ways it was worse than before his fight with Vesemir. Worse than before Geralt returned his lute. Just, worse. The power of his Voice, of his soul, seemed to perpetually tremble in the air around him, a low rumble in the distance like a storm growing and threatening to break. He made himself even more scare than usual, and not just retreating to his preferred tower, no. Now he also retreated deep beneath Kaer Morhen to stare at the words etched on the curved wall, still glowing fiercely and whispering through the dark halls.

Vesemir had been speechless when he had gone down to see it, disbelieve coloring his face as he looked around in awe at the strange Dwemer-made door mechanism, the Hall of Stories, and the Nord-style cavern that held the Word Wall.

Yennefer had asked Jaskier if this was what the other Nord tombs and Word Walls looked like, but the bard had been unresponsive to her prodding.

Unresponsive to most of them.

When he wasn’t holed away meditating or looking at the words of his name, he was a furious ball of energy. Lambert estimated he’d fletched a hundred arrows, and after destroying the first archery target in the courtyard with the sheer number he’d put into it had moved to the trees around the keep. It looked like a battlefield as a result.

There were dark circles under his eyes and he wasn’t eating well.

Geralt hadn’t realized just how badly the words had affected Jaskier until he realized the other hadn’t touched his lute since they had found the Word Wall.

He didn’t know how to broach the subject with Jaskier.

He didn’t know how to fix this.

==

The words, echoing like a Shout in the sky, were in all of his dreams. Whispering in his ear throughout the day.

Inescapable.

Alduin’s taunt. His threat. His promise.

“ _Nu hin sil dii. Gro ulse._ ”

Your soul is mine. Bound forever.

Bound forever.

Forever.

A dark storm rising to him.

A gaping maw.

Thunder roaring.

And a voice. A Voice. Speaking to him, calling his _name_.

“ _Zulnehdir_.”

Jaskier jolted awake. The snow was falling outside of the window, the fire nearly out in the hearth of his room, and yet he barely felt the chill of the stone beneath his feet as he tossed blankets and furs back and slipped out of the bed to stand by the window, opening it and taking a deep breath of cold crisp air.

It felt like _Monahven_ , the Throat of the World.

If he closed his eyes and just breathed, he could almost hear Paarthurnax and the low, gentle rumble of voice.

“ _Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah fin vulon. Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah dii hahnu._ ”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped opened.

Paarthurnax had _never_ said anything like _that_ , Jaskier was certain.

But he had heard it. When? What had woken him just now?

“Paarthurnax?” He whispered to cold room. Not a Shout, not yet. He looked out the window, the snowfall giving way to clearing skies and a sliver of a silver moon.

“ _Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah fin vulon_. _Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah dii hahnu._ ”

“Is it really that easy?” He asked aloud to no one, even as he pulled the window closed and absently waved Flames over the dying fire to warm up the room as he pulled off his sleep clothes and tugged on his usual Nightingale armor. There would be no falling back asleep now.

With every trick he’d learned from Brynjolf, Karliah, and the rest of the Guild, he moved through the keep like a shadow and out into the courtyard. The sky was ablaze in color so familiar it pained Jaskier to look at it and only see a single moon.

He closed his eyes.

It still felt like _Monahven_.

Jaskier breathed slowly, carefully, in and out as he contemplated the strange words in his mentor’s voice.

_Call my name to the night. Call my name to my dream._

Was it really that simple?

A crunch of snow behind him.

Jaskier opened his eyes-

And Shouted.

“ ** _Paarthurnax_**!”

A crack of thunder, louder and stronger than most of his Shouts, echoed off the mountains and into the sky. There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, light in the corner of his eye flickered as a fire was stoked or a lamp was lit in one of the rooms of the keep.

More footsteps on snow.

“Jaskier, what are you-”

A roar. Distant. Loud. Echoing. _Familiar_.

A shadow overhead.

A rustle of wings.

And then, at last, perched on the wall.

“Fuck.” Jaskier heard behind him, even as he couldn’t stop the sound of joy that tore itself from his throat at the sight of the other _here_. He shoved his hood back and sprinted toward the dragon.

He embraced the flames as they hit him, even as Geralt shouted behind him.

“ _Drem yol lok, Zulnehdir._ ”

Tilting his head back, he returned the greeting in kind with a grin.

“ _Drem yol lok, Paarthurnax._ ”

“Your _Thu’um_ echoes far, _Dovahkiin_. I have received your message and your call.”

“I’m glad,” Jaskier said, still looking up at the dragon, at a loss for words at seeing the great dragon _here_.

“ _Lok paaz, mal gein_?”

“ _Nid_ ,” Jaskier admitted, shaking his head. “ _Lok gram,_ _nuz nu hi los het_.”

Paarthurnax laughed.

“ _Hi tinvaak, ahrz zu’u hon_.”

That giant head lowered and nudged Jaskier gently. The bard breathed a laugh, and ran his hands over rough scales.

“I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“We are bound, _mal zeymah_. Just as surely as Destiny ties you to Alduin, so it has bound us together,” Paarthurnax’s voice was a deep, familiar rumble. Despite the words spoken gently with warmth, Jaskier trembled. Alduin’s words haunting him.

“ _Nu hin sil dii. Gro ulse._ ”

“Ah,” Paarthurnax’s head lifted back. “I see. Alduin.”

“I wanted- _nid_. I need to ask-”

Jaskier wrenched a fist in his hair and tugged, unable to explain his fear.

“Fuck.”

“Perhaps an introduction first, _mal zeymah_? Your _fahdon_ appear troubled.”

Jaskier glanced behind him where the witchers, Cirilla and the sorceress were all watching in various states of wakefulness and partially clothed in sleepclothes and warm furs. Their expressions ranged from shock, to annoyance, to weary, and awe. Mostly it was a combination of these.

“I uh,” Jaskier began and then glanced up at Paarthurnax who bowed his great head. Jaskier lay a hand on the rough scales once more. “This is Paarthurnax. He’s- he taught me the _Thu’um_ and _Dovahzul_. Knows more about Alduin than anyone else and is the leader of the Greybeards and the Way of the Voice.”

They continued to stare at the strange dragon. Jaskier knew Paarthurnax barely resembled Villentretenmerth and the dragons of their Sphere. Like the dragon in Rinde, Paarthurnax was wicked spikes and claws. His coloring was faded with age and battles, his great wings tattered, one horn broken. He looked fierce and dangerous despite all of this, or perhaps because of it. Jaskier kept his hand on the dragon.

“Paarthurnax, the witchers of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir, Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt.”

“Ah, _sot grohliik_. _Zulnehdir_ has spoken of you often and with great fondness.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed.

Paarthurnax laughed again.

” _Sot grohliik_. You say it as White Wolf.”

Geralt looked at Jaskier, who only smiled wide.

“Princess Cirilla of Cintra,” Jaskier introduced the girl beside Geralt next.

“ _Daan kiir_ , yes.”

To the surprise of everyone but Jaskier, Ciri gave a curtsy and smiled at the wizened dragon.

“ _Drem yol lok_.”

“ _Werid!_ _Tinvaak hi Dovahzul_?”

“ _Geh. Zu’u los unt_ ,” she flushed. “Jaskier has been teaching me.”

“Well met, _kulaas_.”

“And Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

“ _Kro, geh_. I remember your stories of this one.”

“How are you here?” Yennefer asked, looking between Jaskier and Paarthurnax.

“The _Dovahkiin_ called my name, and I answered. I doubt many could deny _Zulnehdir_ if he spoke their _dovahzin_ with his Voice.”

Jaskier looked thoughtful and he looked into Paarthurnax’s eye.

“Would the others hear it? If I called? Durnehviir I know would, but Odahviing and the rest?”

“Indeed. I had been uncertain until now, but when the time comes _dov fen zin hin Thu’um_.”

“Huh,” Jaskier looked away, a thoughtful expression on his face before he turned back to the dragon. “It’s been _weeks_ , Paarthurnax. What took you so long?”

The dragon huffed out a laughed and titled his head to nudge at Jaskier, not quite knocking the Dragonborn off his feet.

“Using Durnehviir was _onik_ , _mal gein_ , but all things _naal tiid_. Durnehviir had to find the _nahgahdinok,_ the _nahgahdinok monii_. Your _sos kiir_ then had to travel _Keizaal_ to _Monahven_. This is not easy, as you know. She does not have your _Echoing Voice_.”

Jaskier sighed, hand still idly stroking the scales on Paarthurnax’s neck.

“No, I suppose she doesn’t,” he looked back at his mentor. “How did you think to use dreams?”

“Ah, your _sos kiir_ had the idea, from your journey to Solstheim.”

“Miraak,” the word flew from Jaskier like a curse and he scowled. “I thought we made sure I was protected from that?”

“ _Geh_ , but I did not seek to control you through your dreams, but to _tinvaak_.”

“Let’s not do it again if we don’t have to,” Jaskier said with a slight shudder, not from the cold, though it made the assembled group watching realize just how cold it was to be outside in the middle of night.

“Come, back inside,” Vesemir instructed, laying a hand on Ciri’s shoulder and steering her back toward the keep. “I assume you can keep your …friend out of any trouble?” Vesemir said looking at Paarthurnax. The dragon huffed out another laugh.

“No,” Jaskier grinned. “But that isn’t his way.”

Vesemir nodded and was followed into the keep by Yennefer, who glanced back at the dragon once more with an odd expression on her face, one Jaskier would almost call wistful. Lambert and Eskel trailed behind her, Lambert scowling, likely from having woken up and running out into the cold for that little bit of drama, and Eskel looking pensive. Geralt moved to follow but stopped when he realized Jaskier hadn’t followed but instead had only moved to lean heavily on Paarthurnax’s neck, as if the weight he’d been carrying could finally be shared.

Geralt realized that Jaskier’s conversation with the dragon was the most _alive_ he’d seen Jaskier since their reunion in Rinde. The most like he’d been _before_ …

Before Caingorn.

Before Skyrim.

Before a prophecy shaped him into someone Geralt didn’t know anymore.

The witcher gazed at his friend silently for a few minutes as that realization unraveled inside of himself.

Jaskier was a warrior. Jaskier was a mage. Jaskier was Dragonborn and all that came with it.

Jaskier was stealthy. Silent. Brutal. Precise.

And yet, _and yet_.

Jaskier was still _Jaskier_. For all that Geralt sometimes didn’t recognize the other man, it was still _him_.

The dragon rumbled in his language and Jaskier’s head shot up to look at the witcher.

“Geralt, is everything all right?”

“I- are you not coming inside?”

Jaskier’s blue eyes slide from him to the dragon he was still leaning against and back.

He slowly shook his head.

“No- I. I need to speak Paarthurnax. This is important, and there’s no point in putting it off now that he’s here.”

Geralt nodded, once sharp and then hesitated once more.

“Don’t stay out too long, spring is still a ways off.”

With that awkward, abrupt statement, Geralt turned to head back inside, turning his head just once more before ducking inside as two voices began speaking, surrounded, unsurprisingly, by distant rumbling.

Whatever was said had Jaskier’s expression crumbling through shock, distress, and disbelieve, even as he replied in rapid _Dovahzul_.

Geralt hurried inside. Whatever was said, Jaskier would share later.

 _He hoped_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The World Wall was one of the first ideas I had for this and I was so worried I was going to have to cut it until I figured out how it all pays off in a couple chapters.
> 
>  _Qethsegol vahrukiv laat dovahkiin. Faal sonaan wunduniik, wo mu dahmaan ol Zulnehdir_ : This stone commemorates the last Dragonborn. The traveling bard who we know as voice never dying (The Unending Voice)  
>  _Kinbok_ : Leader, especially someone older and more experienced.  
>  _Mal zeymah_ : Little brother  
>  _Hin Dovahzin los Zulnehdir_ : Your Dragon Name is voice never dying. (The Unending Voice)  
>  _Durnehviir_ : Literally, curse never ending. Durnehviir's name is also used as a shout to summon him.  
>  _Qahnaarin_ : Vanquisher (this is a title Durnehviir uniquely uses with the Dragonborn)  
>  _Mindoraan_ : I understand  
>  _Keizaal_ : Skyrim  
>  _Nahgahdinok_ : Necromancer  
>  _Nid. Monii_ : No, her daughter  
>  _Hi fahdon. Geh_ : Your friend/ally. Yes.  
>  _Tinvaak_ : Say  
>  _Nu hin sil di. Gro ulse_ : Now your soul is mine. Bound forever.  
>  _Zu'u unslaad. Zu'u nis oblaan_ : I am eternal. I cannot end.  
>  _Mon_ : Daughter  
>  _Lok vah koor_ : Literally, sky spring summer. Clear Skies, a shout that clears any bad weather.  
>  _Sos kiir_ : Blood child  
>  _Morah_ : Contemplate  
>  _Halvut ko hahnu_ : Touch within dreams  
>  _Tiid_ : Time  
>  _Kiir_ : Child  
>  _Hahnu_ : Dreams  
>  _Monahven_ : Throat of the World  
>  _Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah fin vulon. Tinvaak dii dovahziin wah dii hahnu_ : Call my name to the night. Call my name to my dream.  
>  _Paarthurnax_ : Literally, ambition overlord cruelty. In this case, used as a shout to call Paarthurnax.  
>  _Drem yol lok_ : Literally, peace fire sky. Greetings.  
>  _Lok paaz, mal gein?_ : Clear skies, little one? Clear skies equating to How are you?  
>  _Nid. Lok gram, nuz nu hi los het_ : No. My skies are clouded, but now you are here. My skies are clouded equating to I am not well.  
>  _Hi tinvaak, ahrz zu'u hon_ : You spoke, and I listened.  
>  _Mal zeymah_ : Little brother  
>  _Sot grohliik_ : White Wolf  
>  _Daan kiir_ : Destiny Child  
>  _Werid! Tinvaak hi Dovahzul?_ : Praise! You speak the Dragon Language?  
>  _Geh. Zu'u los unt_ : Yes, I am trying  
>  _Kulaas_ : Princess  
>  _Kro, geh_ : Sorceress, yes.  
>  _Dov fen zin hin Thu'um_ : Dragonkind will honor your Voice.  
>  _Onik, mal gein_ : Wise, little one  
>  _Naal tiid_ : With time
> 
> A hundred arrows, heh. My character runs around with thousands, but then again my most recent playthrough was a bow-primary build. Plus, arrow crafting is a great way to level up Smithing, and it's legit more useful than making a hundred iron daggers.
> 
> I can't tell you how many times I've played Skyrim and just straight up refuse to kill Paarthurnax. He's great, I feel like he would totally adopt Jaskier as Dragonborn as a little sibling.


	9. KEIZAAL (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had so much fun writing this part.
> 
> CW: There is vague mention of child abuse during the Dark Brotherhood flashback. This is canon to Skyrim.

After Vesemir led the others into the keep Jaskier remained leaning against Paarthurnax and taking in his familiar presence, until the great dragon spoke in a low rumble.

“Your White Wolf lingers.”

Jaskier raised his head sharply to look over at Geralt, his golden gaze fixed upon him expectantly.

“Geralt, is everything all right?”

“I-” he hesitated for a half second. “Are you not coming inside?”

Jaskier stared at him a moment longer then slid his gaze to Paarthurnax who was _here_ and back to Geralt with a slow shake of his head.

“No- I,” he already knew there would be no sleep for him tonight. Best to have this discussion without the others present, even if they didn’t understand the words spoken. “I need to speak with Paarthurnax. This is important and there’s no point in putting it off now that’s here.”

Geralt nodded sharply in response but didn’t move. After an odd stretch of silence, the witcher spoke once more.

“Don’t stay out too long, spring is still a ways off.”

The witcher turned sharply with that to retreat inside, and as Jaskier watched him go for a moment a warm amusement ran through him at Geralt’s unexpected show of _caring_.

He turned back to Paarthurnax and took a step back to face the dragon properly.

“I am sorry for calling you here,” he began, falling into _Dovahzul_ easily. “But I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Tell me, little one. I am here to listen.”

Jaskier took a shaky breath and ran his hand through his hair.

“Under the keep, I found a Word Wall.”

“A relic from the Dragon Break? What Word of Power did you find?”

“That’s just it – the wall, the Word of Power on it. It’s me. It’s my name,” he looked up at the dragon. “How is there a wall here about _me_?”

Paarthurnax dipped his head in a gesture that could only be regret.

“Sorrow, for I know these are not the words you want to hear. The Scrolls, the Prophecy, your Destiny – you have been remade little one. You have gone through the Time-Wound, and so are no longer bound by time.”

Jaskier couldn’t contain his surprise as his mouth fell open and he gaped at the dragon, before scrunching up his face in denial and confusion as he tried to process Paarthurnax’s words.

“ _What_? What does that even mean? How can I be _unbound from time_?”

“Calm, little brother. We are immortal, you know this.”

“ _You_ are, but everything about Dragonborn says I’m still a man. Only my blood and soul is dragon, my body is not.”

Paarthurnax dipped his head in a nod of agreement.

“For Dragonborn, yes. But you are special among Dragonborn.”

“Because I’m the last,” Jaskier murmured.

“Indeed. You are not _a_ Dragonborn. You are _The Last_ Dragonborn. The one who will prevent Alduin from destroying the world.”

“And that’s the heart of the matter, isn’t it? His destiny is to destroy the world, and mine is to stop him. Are we now trapped in this cycle for eternity?” Jaskier crumpled to the ground to his knees in the snow and looked at Paarthurnax in despair. “Alduin said my soul is bound to his forever, and he cannot die.”

Paarthurnax shook his head.

“You are proof that for all of our immortality, a dragon can be ended. I do not believe Akatosh to be so cruel as to trap you in an infinite cycle. And you have been touched by the Scrolls. They may be a record of what was, is, and will be, but even they only offer a view from a fixed point in the flow of time. By going to Skyrim you not only stepped between worlds but through time, and by returning you have stepped through it again. In a way, you are a living Dragon Break, an event which alters the linearity of time. An event even the Scrolls cannot see. You both are and are not.”

“But, but,” Jaskier stammered, trying to process the idea that by going to Skyrim and back he had somehow become a temporal anomaly.

“Do not try to comprehend this, for none affected by the Dragon Break can. For you to _be_ the event only more so. And yet, the Dragon Break is named for Akatosh, who created the First Dragonborn. I do not believe it coincidence that this would happen to you.”

“So,” Jaskier rubbed a hand over his face. “So I’m _not_ bound to Alduin for eternity?”

Paarthurnax laughed.

“You are and are not,” he repeated. “In a Dragon Break, all realities are truth, even when they contradict one another.”

Jaskier shook his head and Paarthurnax was silent for a moment as he tried to wrap his thoughts around the idea of it.

He couldn’t.

Paarthurnax’s voice rumbled again.

“There is… more, little one.”

“Will this at least make _sense_?” Jaskier asked back, looking up, still somewhat dazed by Paarthurnax’s words. Despite the lack of comprehension, he could feel the truth in them. That he was somehow a living disruption to the flow of time.

“I believe so,” Paarthurnax huffed out a laugh. “The Song speaks of you as kin to both Wyrm and Man. I did not notice at first, but by entering Skyrim you became so.”

“What does that mean?”

“You are still _you_ , brother. But you are unbothered by the cold as the Nords are, and Magic is weaker against you as it is to the Bretons. You have spoken to Calm, like the Imperials, and see clearly at night as the Khajiit do. You are kin to all races of Tamriel.”

“The _Song_ ,” Jaskier stared and frowned. “also claims my power rivals the _sun_.”

“Does it not?” Paarthurnax wondered. “You have learned Shouts long forgotten by our kind, traveled time itself, become kin to all of Tamriel, and won the favor of Aedra and Daedra alike.”

“Not by choice,” Jaskier muttered, recalling the Daedra who had held him hostage to their tasks. Nocturnal, who made him Nightingale to save the Thieves Guild and to avenge what was taken from her. Sanguine, who had stolen him for a night he couldn’t remember in the name of _entertainment_. Hermaeus Mora, who forced him to convince Storn to give up the knowledge of the Skaal in exchange for the Word needed to overcome Miraak.

“Akatosh will retain your right to choose. The Daedra have no power over him, and he chose _you_. Prophecy is a weak guide, Jaskier.” The bard’s eyes went wide as he looked up at Paarthurnax. The dragon rarely used his chosen name. “You must live as you. Which is better: To follow the road laid before you, or to go where your heart takes you?”

Jaskier smiled and raised himself up to press his forehead against Paarthurnax’s spiked jaw, the dragon’s warm breath rustling his hair.

“Thank you.”

==

Jaskier probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find Geralt sitting up by the dim fire in the hall when he returned inside. The sky outside was still dark when he’d finish speaking with Paarthurnax, but he knew the rest of the keep would be up with sun soon enough.

“Geralt,” he greeted, moving to take a seat beside him, looking at the flickering flames.

The witcher made an acknowledging sound and held out a tankard of mead, fuller than the one in his other hand.

“Isn’t it a bit early for that?” Jaskier asked, even as he accepted the offered beverage and took a drink of it.

“One could argue it’s just very late.”

“One could.”

There was a companionable silence between them, the quiet reminiscent of their many nights traveling together and making camp under the stars.

“Good talk?” Geralt finally asked after a pregnant pause.

“Hmm,” Jaskier took a long drink of the mead. “It was unexpected. Not bad, but not exactly good.”

“I’m…I’m here. If you want to talk about it,” Geralt offered, turning his bright golden gaze on him.

Jaskier offered a small smile in return then looked back at the dwindling fire, both hands wrapped around the tankard. His smile slipped into a more neutral expression.

“It,” Jaskier began then stopped and scowled. Geralt waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. “It turns out,” Jaskier tried again, his voice croaking slightly despite his attempt to sound nonchalant. “That I may no longer be as human as I once was. Dragonborn historically have been men with the blood and soul of a dragon and I can’t even do that right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Apparently going to Skyrim and going through time has _changed_ me. I’m a little bit of all of Tamriel, and no longer bound to time.”

Geralt swallowed hard. It was one thing to face your mortality. It was quite another to face your inhumanity.

“You…always did look rather young for your age,” Geralt offered. He was startled when Jaskier barked out a laugh.

“I’m not actually as upset as I thought I’d be,” Jaskier admitted, taking another long drink of the mead. “I’m not happy about it either, mind you.”

“Unexpected,” Geralt affirmed Jaskier’s earlier words.

Jaskier gave a hum in reply, eyes fixed on the mead in his hands.

“I,” he began, his hands tightening around the tankard. “I want to tell you about Skyrim.” He looked up at Geralt, who couldn’t cover the surprise on his face. “Everything. I want to tell you everything. But.”

He growled, looking away again.

“It’s okay, Jaskier.”

“No, it fucking well isn’t!” Jaskier snapped. “I want to tell you and I don’t because I can’t stand it if- I don’t want you to-” He took a deep breath and set the tankard down, putting his head into his hands and tugging at his hair. “I did things I’m not proud of,” he murmured, his voice low and sounding very small. “And I don’t know what I’ll do if you hate me for it.”

Geralt stared at him, his golden eyes gleaming with an unnamed emotion in the low firelight.

“You survived,” he said at last, his voice gruff. “I can’t fault you for that.”

“Oh, Geralt. It’s so much more than that,” Jaskier replied, sounding on the verge of tears.

And then he started speaking. About how after Alduin interrupted his execution the dragon burned the village to the ground. How he was aided in his escape by the Stormcloak from the wagon and the Imperial who had shown him kindness. He choked when he spoke of taking the armor off of a dead man and defending himself against two Imperials who found them in the keep. He spoke of killing the woman who had sentenced him to death. He spoke of escaping through the keep even as Alduin’s roar reached them deep in the darkness and tunnels below. He spoke of the shock of cold air and bright sun as he got his first _real_ look at Skyrim upon escaping, and how he promptly fell to his knees and vomited the empty remains of his stomach into the grass as soon as he was alone.

He spoke of the strange draw he felt from Bleak Falls Barrow as he made his way to Riverwood. How he waded across the river and climbed up to find a bandit camp and word of a stolen relic. Of a Dunmer bandit who he saved, only to renege on his word and run headlong into death at the hands of the draugr. He recalled his first time seeing the Hall of Stories and climbing a dark staircase up into a cavern lit by beams of sunlight peeking through the cavern ceiling and waterfalls framing the large curved wall of stone with its glowing words. How it beckoned to him. How he _knew_ the words without knowing them. How the knowledge itched at his brain, begging to be used and shouted to the sky.

“A Word Wall,” Geralt murmured, thinking to a similar cavern deep below them, hidden away by a secret door that shouldn’t exist and waiting for the blood of a Dragonborn to open it.

“The first word wall for me. The first word. _Fus_.”

Jaskier recounted approaching the wall, of knowing the _Rotmulaag_ without knowing it, how the chanting quieted and the glow vanished.

“The wall under Kaer Morhen still glows though,” Geralt interrupted. Jaskier shook his head, the braids swaying with the motion.

“I haven’t approached the wall. Not close enough to understand the _Rotmulaag_. I was… afraid. When I saw my name on it, I didn’t know what to think.”

“And now?”

“I can’t say I’m not afraid, but… Paarthurnax reminded me of a few things I had forgotten. I had planned to go down later.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jaskier’s gaze turned to him, startled. “If you want.”

The bard gave him a small smile.

“If you still want to when I finish…”

He trailed off.

“I’m in for a long night aren’t I?” The witcher asked looking into his near empty beverage.

“Could do with a refill myself?” Jaskier suggested, offering his own empty tankard.

Geralt returned with two more demijohns of mead and ale and settled back in to hear more about Skyrim and Jaskier’s life there. He tried to listen and not interrupt, but there were some things he couldn’t help but ask after.

“You knew how to use a bow before Skyrim?”

“I may not be high nobility, but I was still raised noble, Geralt. The Hunt is a long standing tradition, even in a Viscounty like Lettenhove. Besides, whatever skill I had left a lot to be desired in Skyrim.”

“At first.”

“All things with time and practice.”

“Like your ability to walk without a sound?”

Jaskier sighed.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. After the fight with Mirmulnir at the Western Watchtower we returned to Whiterun. That’s where I heard the summons from the Greybeards. Well, I say we, but everyone heard it echoing from High Hrothgar. I knew I had to go, but before I left for Ivarstead, I went to see Jorrvaskr, home of the Companions.”

“A brothel?”

Jaskier couldn’t help but laugh.

==

“The old man said to have a look at you, so let’s do this,” the gruff, dark haired Companion Kodlak had sent him outside with took up a defensive position. “Just a few swings so I can see your form.”

“What if I hurt you?” Jaskier asked, shifting his grip on the daggers in his hands even as moved to stand opposite of Vilkas.

“Don’t worry, I can take it.”

Vilkas didn’t move as Jaskier’s dual daggers flashed at him, not leaving marks on the heavy, carved armor the man wore. The armor sent a pang of sorrow through Jaskier when he realized the carved motif was of a wolf.

A gruff, but obviously kind, warrior with a penchant for wolves. Ironic.

“Pretty good arm you have there,” he admitted after the first strike. He allowed Jaskier a few more before holding up a hand to stop him. “You might have what it takes, but you’re a still whelp. New blood. So you do what we tell you.”

Jaskier huffed and almost rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop a smile from stretching across his face. Initiation was a familiar rite of passage everywhere it seemed.

A sword was shoved into his hands.

“Take this Eorlund to have it sharpened. It’s worth more than you are, so be careful.”

Do what we tell you, indeed. This time Jaskier did roll his eyes, even as Vilkas walked away toward his brother. Jaskier followed where Vilkas had indicated, along the path that followed a crumbling stone wall, up a staircase to an impressive forge open to the sky but protected under the wings of an eagle carved into the rock. There was a man at the forge with his back to him. A man with white-silver hair and-

“Geralt?”

The man turned to look at him, and that pang of sorrow hit again.

White hair, pale eyes, a thick beard and a frown marring his face. The hair aside, it was clearly _not_ the witcher.

Why would it have been?

“What brings you here?” The man called, looking up from the sword in his hand.

“I, uh, Vilkas?” Jaskier replied, still dispelling the thoughts of Geralt and _home_. He held up the sword for good measure.

“Ah, the newcomer.”

Literally how, he’d just been down the hill a minute ago.

“So errands are the regular welcoming for newcomers?” He asked instead.

“They were all whelps once, they just don’t like to talk about it. Around here you aren’t the Jarl’s footstool though, nobody rules anybody in the Companions.”

“But, Kodlak? I thought he-”

“Kodlak is the Harbinger, a sort of advisor to everyone, but every man is his own, every woman her own. There hasn’t been a leader since Ysgramor.”

“Ysgramor,” Jaskier murmured, filing the name away for later. It was clear the blacksmith wasn’t much for conversation. Such an odd string of familiarities.

“So, does Kodlak advise you as well? Are you a Companion?”

“Not actually, but none of them know how to work a forge and I’m honored to do so for them. Name’s Eorlund Gray-Mane, and Skyforge Steel is my art and craft. Best steel in all of Skyrim. Tamriel even.”

Jaskier’s hand went to the iron daggers on his belt, the ones pocketed in Helgen from the Imperials.

No, not thinking about that right now.

He waited as Eorlund took the sword to the whetstone and ran the greatsword over it in long, smooth motions, pulling it away with sharp, gleaming edges.

“That’ll do,” he said, standing and handing the blade back to Jaskier. The bard nodded and carried it back down to where Vilkas was leaned against one of the columns beneath the awning of the hall.

“Good, I suppose that’s a start. You’re one of us now. The Companions have been around for thousands of years as an army, mercenaries, drunken louts, and whatever we need to be. There’s always been an honor to it. We don’t deal in politics or sneaking. We uphold Ysgramor’s honor and bear his good name so it never be forgotten. Talk to my brother, he’ll show you where you can stay when you’re here.”

“I, uh, the Jarl gave me a house in the city, actually?”

Vilkas shot him a look.

“A house? You… the Jarl named you Thane?”

Jaskier nodded.

“For the dragon, west of here,” he offered.

Vilkas merely frowned.

“I, um. He also called me Dragonborn? I’ll actually be leaving in a few days, to head to Ivarstead and up to High Hrothgar? To see the Greybeards, I mean.”

“So it was a summons. The rumors…” Vilkas trailed off, still looking at Jaskier with a strange look on his face. “Well. It still doesn’t hurt to have a place here, and you should introduce yourself to the others anyway.”

==

“Jaskier. Tell me you didn’t join them just because they reminded you of me.”

“Actually, I was hoping to learn how to fight. After escaping from Helgen and exploring Bleak Falls it was rather obvious that if I didn’t get better I was going to wind up dead.”

“Ah.”

“But…I won’t deny there was a … familiarity about the Companions. They took contracts, often monster hunts but clearing out bandits and tracking down lost and kidnapped citizens as well. I usually picked up a few assignments whenever I was around Whiterun. And then I-”

Jaskier cut himself off and looked away.

“And then?”

“I was invited to join the Circle.”

==

“The Underforge?”

“I trust you can find it?” Aela retorted. Jaskier looked between her and Skjor.

“But, the Circle?”

“Not now, Shield-Brother. Tonight.”

Jaskier paced his room in Breezehome until the last golden rays of the sun dipped below the horizon. Lydia had noticed early on.

“Is everything all right, my Thane?”

“I…maybe? The Companions, it’s. I think I might. I don’t know.”

“The Companions are well respected across Tamriel, my Thane.”

He stared at her, wondering if she would still think that if she knew what he did about the Circle. What they were. What they _really_ were.

He sighed.

“Honor,” he murmured. “Honor.”

Skyrim put a lot of emphasis on honor.

“I should go,” he muttered, moving out of the room, Lydia following him down the stairs.

“Jaskier.”

He looked back at her from the door, startled by hearing his name rather than the usually teasing lilt of _my Thane_.

“You know you can say ‘no,’ right? If whatever they ask of you isn’t what you want. You can say no.”

Jaskier stared at her for a long moment before sighing and dropping his head.

“Sometimes I don’t think I can, Lydia. Keep an eye on the house, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

“As you wish, my Thane.” It wasn’t even said teasingly this time, but rather a solemn promise.

He walked the quiet streets of Whiterun up to Jorrvaskr, and around to the path that led up to the Skyforge. Skjor was standing nearby, but the others weren’t around that Jaskier could see.

“Are you prepared?”

Jaskier realized that hidden in the stone beside him was a door.

“What is this place?”

Skjor’s mouth twitched in what could have been a smile, but his voice was stern as ever.

“Jorrvaskr is the oldest building in Skyrim. The Skyforge is even older. And still older is the Underforge. We bring you here to make you stronger, new blood. Are you ready or not?”

“Yes, I’m ready for whatever test lies ahead.”

Skjor chuckled.

“No test this time, whelp. A gift. Come inside.”

The hidden door, similar to the ones Jaskier had seen throughout the crypts he’d been in, slid open and he followed Skjor into the darkness, even as the Companion continued speaking.

“I’m glad you came. You are due more honor than that pitiful ceremony at the hall. Ah, I see you recognize Aela, even in this form. She has agreed to be your forebear.”

Jaskier stood still, looking across at the werewolf watching him in return. Right, Farkas had mentioned all of the Circle had this… gift.

“We do this in secret because Kodlak thinks it’s a curse and is trying to throw it away, but we fail to see how this can be anything but a blessing.”

Skjor turned to face him.

“To reach your potential in the Companions, you must join with us in the shared blood of the wolf. Are you prepared, my friend?”

“What if…” Jaskier asked hesitantly looking between Skjor and Aela in her monstrous form. “What if I don’t want to be a werewolf?”

Skjor frowned.

“That is your choice. We will not force you. But to join the Circle, your blood must be our blood.”

Jaskier looked at Aela again and swallowed past the tightness in his throat.

If Geralt were here, he’d-

No.

No use thinking on Geralt. No use thinking on the past. No use thinking on anything except the here and now. Would he even be here if Geralt had just _listened_ and they left that gods forsaken mountain when he’d suggested it? Would he even be here if Geralt had never met the witch in Rinde so many years ago? Would he even be here if he hadn’t gotten that stupid idea in his head to follow a witcher around back in Posada decades ago?

Here and now.

He looked at Skjor.

“I’m ready.”

==

Geralt’s head was in his hand, and a sound of distress escaped him.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“I was upset, Geralt. _Months_ I’d been in Skyrim, running around doing odd jobs for people, being attacked by dragons, learning words that would burn beneath my skin and finding no hope that I would ever make it back here. So I took it. I took the gift of Beast Blood and I don’t regret it. It… it may not have been the best idea I had, but if I hadn’t done it I don’t know if I would have been able to grant Kodlak’s last request. Aela and I were hunting down the Silver Hand after they killed Skjor and Kodlak asked to speak with me.

“He told me how the Companions got tangled up with werewolves and the Daedric Prince of the Hunt, Hircine. How he feared that he would be denied the right to Sovngarde and sent to Hircine’s Hunting Grounds, which may be what some want for their afterlife, but not Kodlak.

“He asked for my help in undoing the bargain made, though he said it was my right to choose if I gave up my own curse or not. He thought it was the right path, to restore Ysgramor’s honor to the Companions.”

So much of Skyrim was steeped in honor.

“I agreed of course, but when I returned… the Silver Hand had attacked Jorrvaskr while I had been gone, seeking what Kodlak hoped could lead to a cure. He was killed in the attack. Vilkas was furious, and sought revenge. I think in some ways Kodlak was to he and his brother as Vesemir is to you and yours.”

“A mentor?”

“A father,” Jaskier looked up and this time Geralt had to look away. “Anyway, after the funeral the Circle agreed it best to carry out his last wish. We traveled to the tomb of Ysgramor, who was said to be the first man to come to Skyrim. ‘The Harbinger of us All.’”

“Harbinger,” Geralt repeated.

“Mmhmm. I went into the Tomb with Aela. Despite believing the Beast Blood a blessing, she wanted to honor Kodlak. Vilkas was ashamed he had given into vengeance against his wishes and Farkas, well. The giant spiders were his weakness and he knew it.

“Whatever magic exists in Ysgramor’s Tomb, it allowed us to face Kodlak’s wolf, and in slaying it, freed his soul from Hircine. He named me Harbinger, and Aela was the first to speak it. I returned to the Tomb to cure myself, and later Vilkas and Farkas at their request.”

“But not Aela.”

Jaskier shrugged.

“Not before I Ieft Skyrim anyway. I think she was…close. I’d been trying to convince her that fighting on her own strength would bring greater honor than with that of the Beast, but,” he sighed. “I had a destiny to fulfill. They understood it, but still. The Companions were in many ways the first _friends_ I had in Skyrim.”

“Just the first?” Geralt asked, amused.

“Well, there was the College of Winterhold.”

“Right, the mages.”

“And the Bard’s College.”

“I _knew_ it,” Geralt sounded downright _gleeful_.

“And the Thieves Guild.”

“Excuse me?”

Jaskier sighed again.

“It’s how I became Nightingale. By way of the Thieves Guild. They almost got me killed too.”

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Let me start at the beginning. I had just arrived in Riften, in the south east-”

==

Riften was _damp_. That was the first thing Jaskier noticed as the guards opened the gates and allowed him into the city. It was strange, somehow managing to be on two levels around a canal, and the lake it was built next to boasted a meadary and fishery. The town seemed to revolve around a central market with a well in the middle, the Jarl’s longhouse and a temple overlooking the gathering space. Jaskier almost missed the man in blue approach as he took it all in. Almost.

“Never done an honest day’s work in your life for all the coin you’re carrying, eh, lad?”

“Excuse me?”

Jaskier replied looking over at the man.

Reddish-brown hair framed a handsome, mischievous face and he was clothed in a fine outfit of blue, much nicer than many of the folks milling about. Something about the entire thing was off.

“I’m saying you’ve got the coin, but you didn’t earn a septim of it honestly.”

Jaskier stepped close and with a fierce look made sure the man was _well_ aware of the dagger concealed in his hand between them.

“Dead bandits and draugr aren’t honest enough for you?” He hissed, eyes narrowed at the stranger.

The man’s eyes widened for a moment, then lit with something that looked a bit like glee.

“Easy there, lad. Let’s not get off on the wrong foot. Wealth is my business and my trade. Just thought you might be interested in a share.”

Jaskier stepped back, slipping the dagger back into its sheath.

“What exactly do you have in mind?”

“I’ve got a bit of an errand to perform, and I need an extra pair of hands. You’ll be compensated of course.”

“Perform?”

“Aye, I’ll cause a bit of a distraction, and you steal the silver ring Madesi, the Argonian, has in the box under his stand. Then you put it in Brand-Shei’s pocket without him noticing. The elf,” he added, as Jaskier’s eyes flit about the marketplace. Sure enough there was a dark scaled Argonian jeweler behind one of the stalls, and a dark elf meandering the market.

“Why?” Jaskier asked, glancing back at the man.

“My Guild has been contracted to take care of Brand-Shei, and since we’re not the Dark Brotherhood, we’re not going to kill him, just send him away for a few days.”

“You’re framing him.”

“Business is business.”

“What’s in it for me?”

“Despite the dead bandits and draugr, your coin purse is a bit light, isn’t it lad?”

Jaskier fought the urge to scowl, but the man wasn’t _wrong_. He’d stopped in Ivarstead on the way, needing to repair his weapons and armor and restock his provisions. Plus, he’d just given Rayya most of his coin to buy materials for the house in Falkreath. He didn’t _need_ the house, strictly speaking. Breezehome in Whiterun was more than enough, but the lot on the lake outside of Falkreath…

It was peaceful. It felt like an escape from the inhospitable wild, from the roar of the dragons, from the pull of _destiny_.

“All right,” Jaskier agreed. “Let’s see your performance.”

“And once I’ve started, we’ll see what you’re made of too.”

==

“Why?”

“I was bored?”

Geralt didn’t even say his name in that exasperated tone this time, just sighed, and ran a hand down his face.

“The man, he was part of the Guild wasn’t he?”

“He is. Brynjolf is, and was second only to the leader of the Guild. The Guild Master at the time I arrived in Riften was a man by the name of Mercer Frey.”

“You don’t like him.”

“Am I thought obvious?”

“To me you are.”

Jaskier hummed again, taking another drink and refilling his tankard.

“The Thieves Guild has a long history with Skyrim and all of Tamriel. And a strange honor among them. No murder, no assassination. That’s Brotherhood business.”

Jaskier shuddered a little at the mention.

“You mentioned that before. The Dark Brotherhood.”

“My run in with them happened later.”

“Please don’t tell me you became leader of an assassin guild too.”

“No; I killed their leader and burned it to the ground. Do you want to hear about the Thieves Guild or not?”

==

“Good, you’re finally here. I’m certain Karliah is still inside.”

“You saw her?” Jaskier asked, making his way down the stone stairs into the snow covered entrance.

“No, I found her horse. I’ve taken care of it, so she can’t escape. Now, let’s get moving, you take the lead.”

Something about that set Jaskier on edge. Mercer had been…odd. The Guild Master had never really struck Jaskier as welcoming, but he had seemed almost annoyed by Jaskier and his success around the Guild. While Vex and Delvin had been equal measure praise and criticism, Mercer still treated Jaskier as an annoyance.

“You want me to lead?”

Mercer fixed him with a glare and leaned in close as he snarled.

“I’m sorry, I was under the impression I was in charge. You’re leading, and I’m following. Is that clear to you?”

Jaskier nodded rapidly and choked out an “Understood.”

As the Guild Master followed him into the crypt, Jaskier asked about the previous Guild Master, Gallus, and the traitor they were hunting, Karliah. Mercer was almost unusually forthcoming with information, but still, it all felt _off_. Like a puzzle where you couldn’t see the whole picture because the most important piece was missing.

“Lovely, looks like Karliah reset all the traps, be on your guard.”

Jaskier led the way through the crypt, similar to so many he’d been through before. It was like any Nord tomb, right down to the Hall of Stories and the dragon claw door.

“A Nord puzzle door,” Jaskier said frowning as they approached. “Without the claw, shouldn’t it be impossible to open?”

Mercer smirked.

“Karliah probably did away with it already. Lucky for us, these doors have a weakness if you know how to exploit it. Quite simple really.”

Jaskier didn’t catch what the man did, the other thief too skilled at using his body to hide his hands, but the door slid open just moments later.

Jaskier’s skin itched, all of his senses screaming at him to flee, that this was _wrong_.

“Karliah’s close, I’m certain of it. Now let’s get moving.”

Jaskier started at him a moment too long, and Mercer gestured harshly toward the door before grabbing Jaskier by the neck of the Elven Armor he’d taken to wearing and bodily shoving him through it instead.

He hit the ground almost immediately after an arrow pierced his shoulder. A paralysis poison, fast and strong. Fuck.

Karliah _was_ there it turned out, but her conversation with Mercer did not go as expected. Or perhaps after the oddness from the man all the way through the tomb it went _exactly_ as expected.

Karliah wasn’t the traitor. Karliah hadn’t killed Gallus.

Mercer was. Mercer had.

And now, Mercer was going to kill him.

==

“Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“Turns out, Karliah’s poison saved my life. Slowed my heart enough that I didn’t bleed out.”

“Fuck,” Geralt repeated, thinking of his own encounter with the necrophages before meeting Ciri. If his own heartrate hadn’t been four times slower than a normal man’s he wouldn’t be sitting there today. “But your healing magic?”

“Actually, tracking down someone who could translate Gallus’ journal is part of the reason I finally stopped putting off going to the college.”

“Thought you said you wanted to see their library.”

“I did, the Arcanaeum is the finest in Skyrim, but I also had a reasonable aversion to mages.”

He shot Geralt a look. The witcher rolled his eyes.

“Surely _Yennefer_ isn’t the reason you didn’t want to go.”

“I said _mages_. Funny of you to assume I meant your darling witch.”

“ _Jask_.”

“If you ever met J’zargo, I assure you, you’d be avoiding the college too. But I digress, I hadn’t done any training in Restoration at that point. Not sure it would have mattered, being unable to move as I was. So Mercer stabbed me, Karliah’s poison kept me from bleeding out, I obviously didn’t die, and then I went to Winterhold to translate Gallus’ journal, which I will come back to yes, stop glaring at me. Together with Karliah we went and gave it to Brynjolf and the Guild, it had the proof that Mercer was the traitor and had been stealing from the Guild for years. Unlucky for us, he was also a Nightingale, an Agent of Nocturnal. She’s one of the Daedric Princes.”

“You seem to have run into several of those.”

“Apparently one marked by Destiny in Tamriel tends to draw all sorts of attention, both good and bad. Nocturnal isn’t inherently evil, but I wouldn’t mistake her for good either. She influences luck and is a patron for the thieves. To beat Mercer, we needed an edge. Brynjolf and I became part of the new Trinity with Karliah to get that edge.”

“At what cost?”

“In theory the exchange was to guard Nocturnal’s gateway into Tamriel, the Twilight Sepulcher, in life and death.” Jaskier shook his head. “But I was marked by Akatosh before all others. Even the Daedra can’t hope to stand against him.”

“Hmm.”

“You’re getting me off track again,” Jaskier said, rubbing a hand at his face. “We took the Oath. It was… Nightingales are songbirds, you know? In some ways it felt like Destiny was moving again when I stood before Nocturnal and made that pact. Afterwards, we tracked Mercer down; he was trying to pull off one last heist before escaping Skyrim. We fought of course. Mercer was… his Nightingale abilities were more powerful than we realized. He kept Karliah distracted by forcing Brynjolf to fight her and I was left to fight Mercer alone.

“We won, but the fight almost killed all of us when the cavern we were in was destroyed and started to flood. It was sheer luck that we found a way out with drowning, and I think we all avoided swimming for a while after that.

“Karliah and Brynjolf…they convinced the rest of the Guild to name me the new Guild Master. I can’t deny it was rather thrilling to see the Guild back on its feet. Every hold in Skyrim knew it too.”

“Not a lot of honor in thieving.”

“There’s plenty of honor in thieving if you do it right, Geralt. Steal from the rich to give to the poor and all that.”

“What about that woman, Black-Briar?”

“Ah, her. It was the last thing I asked Brynjolf before I left and asked him to stand in as Guild Master. Get rid of her influence, and never let the Guild be swayed so much by a single person ever again.”

“Do you think he did?”

“I hope to find out someday.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt looked at the fire, then back at Jaskier.

“Tell me about the assassin guild you burned down?”

Jaskier’s expression pinched.

==

We know.

Two words, written beneath a black handprint on the parchment gripped in his trembling hands.

We know.

The mark of the Dark Brotherhood.

Jaskier’s eyes flit about the trees but the courier who had delivered the note was already gone.

Fuck.

Jaskier ran a shaking hand through his hair, the note still clenched tightly in the other, knuckles turning white as he fought to breathe deeply enough not to panic.

He hadn’t killing. Hated it every time, but it was such an oddly common part of life in Skyrim. He did take contracts to put down bandits at the behest of the Jarls and the Companions on occasion. It wasn’t his preferred line of work, but the bandits didn’t exactly show their victims any quarter. Self-defense against marauders, non-Guild thieves, and rogue mages. He didn’t kill indiscriminately, and not if there was any other way.

Why would the Dark Brotherhood be after him?

The answer came to him as he glanced around the marshy area outside of Morthal and the snow falling gently around him.

The little boy. The one in Windhelm who’d been so desperate to not be sent to the orphanage in Riften that he’d-

Jaskier wasn’t going to blame a child for his fear. He’d been to the orphanage while in Riften. The children there, their fear of Grelod had been palpable. Those kids, those boys and girls, they were _afraid_ of that woman. She made no secret of her actions towards them. And Riften. The people of Riften _knew_ and didn’t do anything about it.

Jaskier didn’t know why they allowed it. Didn’t particularly care, to be honest. He’d been ask to do something about it by a desperate child. He _could_ do something about it, and the consequences be damned. He’d waited in the shadows of the orphanage until Grelod’s assistant, Constance, had gone into her room. A single arrow had taken the old woman down, and the kids, feigning sleep, had not expressed horror, but _joy_ at her passing.

Jaskier still counted her death at his hands, but it wasn’t one he would find himself regretting.

Still, Aventus had sought the Dark Brotherhood for the job. And he had, unwittingly, taken the contract for himself.

He kept a hypervigilant watch all the way to Solitude. It was dark when he entered the gates of the city, the shop owners locking their doors to head home or over to the Winking Skeever for a drink. Jaskier greeted the familiar folks as he made his way to Proudspire, relieved to lock the doors behind him and to have Jordis nearby. He fell into bed heavily and was asleep nearly immediately.

He awoke with a start. Not in his bed, but an unfamiliar room. A single room cabin, ill maintained, with the walls and roof in a state of decay, full of holes and broken boards. A fire crackled in the hearth, giving an offputtingly merry light to the room and illuminating three figures there.

Three figures, bound, kneeling, and hooded as though they awaited execution.

Jaskier jumped up with a gasp, but a voice interrupted before he could investigate further.

“Sleep well?”

Jaskier rounded on the voice. A woman, clad in red and black armor, was perched atop an empty bookcase behind him. The walls around it were splattered with what was unmistakably blood.

“What?” Jaskier looked around again. “Where am I? Who are you?”

She practically purred, one leg swinging idly.

“Does that really matter? You’re warm, dry…and alive. More than can be said for Grelod the Kind, hmm?”

“You… you know about that.”

“Half of Skyrim knows. The bitch was butchered in her own orphanage after all. I’m not criticizing, darling. It was a good kill, and you saved the little urchins. But there is a problem.”

Jaskier bit his lip to keep silent.

“The little boy was looking for one of my associates. It was one of our contracts, and you stole the kill. So the kill must be repaid.”

Jaskier realized exactly what the others in the room were there for.

“You want me to kill someone else,” he rasped, throat suddenly dry. His eyes darted in the direction of the captives.

“Ah yes, our guests. There’s a contract out on one of them, and that person can’t leave this room alive. But which one? Go on. Figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill.”

Jaskier bit his lip even harder. Hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood.

“Am I to take your silence as acceptance? Than you know where we stand. Make your kill. Repay your debt.”

Breathing harshly through his nose, Jaskier pulled the bow from his back and an arrow from his quiver. He walked to the captives, the blood pounding in his ears as he heard each of them speak. A terrified sellsword. A feisty wife and mother. A foul-mouthed Khajiit. Any of them could have a contract on their heads.

Or none at all.

Moving back to the center of the room, he went through the motions of readying his bow, making a show of it even. Firm stance, bow down, arrow on the rest, nock, draw and-

He spun around and released the taught bowstring, the arrow flying true and piercing the assassin woman in the chest.

Her eyes went wide in shock and – pride? As she slumped with a gurgled word.

“Well done…”

Jaskier bit back a sob, even as he reattached his bow to his back and hurried to release the captives with shaking hands.

He’d just killed a member of the Dark Brotherhood.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

He needed to breathe.

He needed to get out of here.

He needed to tell someone.

Right. Someone should know. Someone could help.

He pushed his way out of the shack, stumbling in his haste and looked around furiously to discern where he was. Snow, water, _Solitude_. They hadn’t taken him far at all.

Limbs shaking, he began the climb to the city.

==

Jaskier took a long drink.

“The Solitude guards sent me to an Imperial Commander in Dragon Bridge, a village not far from the city. Maro had been tracking the Brotherhood for a while and the woman I killed wasn’t just an assassin. Astrid was the leader. He knew where they were hiding and how to get in.”

He took another long drink.

“Let me guess,” Geralt rumbled. “You went in.”

“Indeed.”

Geralt sighed.

“By yourself?”

“By myself.”

“You know, the more you tell me about Skyrim, the more I hate it.”

Jaskier just shook his head, slightly ruefully.

“The Bard’s College is in Solitude, did I mention that? I didn’t get involved there, not really. I was… Alduin, the Companions, the College of Winterhold, and the Guild kept me busy enough, but I did stop in. Helped save their festival.”

Geralt hummed.

“Tell me about it?”

Jaskier grinned.

==

He spoke until his voice was hoarse.

And Geralt listened.

He listened to stories of Word Walls and dragons. Of Shouts and magic.

He listened to vivid descriptions of strange cities and villages. Of the people there. Of the struggles they faced. (And Geralt had things to say about those people and places, such as Markarth: “Prison. Really?” “It was fine, honestly. I had learned my Bound Weapons spells by then so even when they took my gear I wasn’t exactly unarmed.” And in Windhelm: “Please tell me you didn’t get involved with a _murderer_ , Jaskier.” “He was killing the lovely young women of Windhelm, Geralt! What was I supposed to do? Let them keep dying?”)

He listened to the details of vampires in Skyrim. About the Dawnguard, and Serana. About the Elder Scrolls and their power and the prophecies contained with them. About the Soul Cairn. (“I didn’t want to do it, Geralt. I didn’t know if there was any way to undo it if I went through with it, but we needed the Scroll. There was no other way.”)

He listened as Jaskier recounted the events that led him to the becoming Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold. (Vojak had been right, it was pretty comical when Geralt realized Jaskier knew a total of three spells at the time they named him Arch-Mage.)

He listened to the ambush on the road by the Cultists of Miraak. About the island covered in ash. About how even sleeping at night was terrifying for fear Miraak would use _Bend_ _Will_ on his mind.

“It’s not a Shout I’m proud of. It was necessary to defeat Miraak, but the cost.” Jaskier’s face fell. “Frea, the Skald who helped me in the temple of Miraak…her father. Hermaeus Mora wouldn’t trade the last word of _Bend_ _Will_ unless he gave himself and his knowledge to the Daedric Prince. And I couldn’t defeat Miraak without it. He- I told him everything. He went willingly, but it was too much. Nobody should have died because of me. I should have found another way.”

“But you saved people too.”

Jaskier just grumbled in response.

“You already said as much, Jask. How many lives did you save stopping the dragons? How many travelers made it safely because you got rid of the bandits? What about with the Companions? You said you took contracts to rescue people.”

“I did. But-”

“No. You saved people. And the father? By helping you stop Miraak, he saved people too.”

“He didn’t have to die though.”

Geralt reached out and clasped a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder.

“You did your best.”

Jaskier looked at him, his eyes wide. The words rang between them, a memory of the Dragon Mountains, of Borch and everything that went with it.

“Jaskier I-” Geralt swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

“What?”

The Dragonborn looked confused.

“For… for what I said. On the mountain. In Caingorn. I-”

“Geralt.” Jaskier shook his head. “There’s no need. You never had anything to apologize for, and even if you did, you were forgiven long ago.”

The silence between them was companionable.

“I don’t hate you,” Geralt murmured and Jaskier’s eyes flashed over to him. “For what you did in Skyrim. What you said earlier… you survived, Jaskier. Call me selfish, but I’m glad. I’m glad you survived. I’m glad you came back.”

Jaskier smiled, small but genuine and looked back to the flicker of the nearly burned out fire.

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part that mostly takes place in Skyrim has no Dovahzul. Of fucking course.
> 
> I did so much research into Elder Scrolls lore, it's not even funny. At one point I had something like 36 different reference tabs open. (Half of those were related to Dovahzul, but that's neither here nor there, is it?)
> 
> Things I am not ashamed to admit:
> 
> I love Vilkas. But marrying him drives me nuts because he turns into a total dork.  
> I love Brynjolf. I'm still pissed I can't romance him and that no version of Skyrim fixes his endgame dialogue. We'll speak another time my ass.  
> I love Serana. I accidentally kinda low-key shipped Jaskier and Serana whilst writing this.  
> I will forever be angry that I cannot murder Maven Black-Briar without mods.
> 
> I went back and fourth with myself for a long time on whether or not to let Jaskier become Listener to the Dark Brotherhood since it's a great quest line (the whole Gourmet bit and the wedding murder!), but in the end I couldn't convince myself to make Jaskier that kind of a killer. That being said I'm contemplating a one-shot spinoff where Jaskier comes back to the Continent just straight up Dark Brotherhood and starts a murder hobo campaign.


	10. FAHDON (Allies)

Jaskier made good on his word and went down beneath the keep to the Word Wall just after the sun had risen, but before the rest of the keep was awake that they were aware of. Geralt accompanied him and watched as the Dragonborn pressed his hand against the glowing words. For a moment, the brilliance of the light emitted by the wall caused Geralt to raise an arm to block his eyes.

The chanting quieted from a fierce echo to a murmur; the glow of the words faded away.

Jaskier’s hand was still pressed against the stone, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“Jaskier?”

He jerked back, blinking a few times and turned to look at Geralt with a small smile.

“Fine. I’m fine.”

“Going to run off to your mentor?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Jaskier walked away from the wall, the small smile never leaving his face. He reached out squeezed Geralt’s arm.

“I really am fine. The Shout, it’s… not what I expected is all.”

“Do you know what it is? What it does, I mean?”

Jaskier nodded.

“It’s like…intuition. For me, for a _Dovahkiin_. It’s less like learning something, and more like, remembering. This one is hard to explain. Dragon names are used to call each other over great distance, and mine is no different, except it is.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Jaskier glanced back to the wall. “If I’m right, anyone I teach my name to can use it to call for me. Not just the _dov_ or those who have the _Thu’um_. _The Unending Voice echoes wherever it’s heard._ ”

“I could learn it?”

Jaskier glanced at him.

“You would want to?”

“It would be,” Geralt swallowed. “Useful.”

“ _Zulnehdir_.”

“Bless you.”

“Fuck off, Lambert.”

“It’s not my fault he always sounds like he’s sneezing.”

The younger witcher approached and looked between the two of them.

“How do you both look so awake?”

Jaskier shrugged.

“I’m used to running on less.”

Geralt cut Lambert off before he could respond to that.

“Why are you here?”

“Looking for you. One of Yennefer’s mage buddies just arrived with news.”

“What kind of news?” Geralt growled.

“The bad kind, of course.” Lambert sounded entirely too cheerful for that answer.

Geralt stopped in his tracks, and caught Jaskier by the arm.

“Go, we’ll catch up.”

Lambert rolled his eyes, but did as requested, calling back lewd comments and innuendos at them.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, even in the dark hallway his golden eyes bright.

“ _Zulnehdir._ ”

Jaskier shook his head.

“You have to _mean_ it, Geralt.”

Geralt’s intense gaze flickered around his face. The blue eyes. The braids that marked him as Dragonborn and Bard alike. The Nightingale crest of his armor.

Different. Familiar. Still Jaskier.

Geralt’s voice rumbled.

“ ** _Zulnehdir_**.”

Jaskier’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open before stretching into a wide grin.

“Well that’s a strange sensation.”

“It- did it work? I can Shout for you?”

“I think it’s less on you Shouting and more on me hearing it, but yes. If you Shout it, I’ll hear it. There’s something else there, but I’m not sure what it is yet.”

Geralt hummed in reply as they returned to the inhabited areas of Kaer Morhen.

Gathered in the mail hall were Lambert, Eskel and Vesemir. Cirilla was standing nearby and lit up when she saw them enter the room. Yennefer was standing next to another mage, a severe looking, but beautiful woman in a rich violet dress of fine shimmering fabrics.

“You must be the Arch-Mage I’ve heard about.”

“I prefer _Dovahkiin_ , or just Jaskier if you will.”

There was a small smile of approval on her face.

“Jaskier then. Your name is not unknown to me.

Jaskier’s expression was guarded.

“Oh?”

“Your music has reached even Aretuza, Master Bard. Though rumors say you’ve not written anything new in a few years.”

“I haven’t been around to write anything new in a few years, ma’am.”

Her smile fell slightly, her expression more stunned.

“Then it’s true. You have traveled to another Sphere and returned to this one.”

Jaskier inclined his head in a nod.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupted before they could continue. “This is Tissaia de Vries, Rectoress of Aretuza. Tissaia, Julian Alfred Pankratz, better known as Jaskier, or perhaps more so these days as the Nightingale.”

“Or the Dragonborn, or the Harbinger. Yes, word of you has reached us indeed.”

“That was the plan,” Jaskier admitted.

“What? Why?” Geralt turned sharply to him.

“I _need_ to face Alduin when he arrives. I need him to know I’m here, and to find me. Remember, he doesn’t know me yet, but he will when he returns to Skyrim.”

“The dragons, though. They knew you.”

Jaskier shook his head.

“Gromidtoor knew me only as _Dovahkiin_. And by now, word of that will have spread amongst them, especially since Nahfaasfeyn will be one of the ones to make it back to Skyrim.”

“How do you know that?” Tissaia asked, not certain she was following the odd conversation.

“Because he’s one of the dragons I’ll defeat in Skyrim.”

“This is the _past_ ,” Tissaia breathed in realization. “You moved through Time and Sphere alike.”

Jaskier nodded.

Tissaia composed herself quickly.

“Well, it seems your plan worked a little too well.”

“What do you mean?” Jaskier asked with a frown.

“Nilfgaard has made an arrangement with the dragons. They’ll give you over and swear allegiance to this Alduin in exchange for Geralt of Rivia and his Child Surprise.”

“Fuck.” Jaskier was fairly certain was Yennefer who’d cursed.

“They cannot march an army up the trail,” Vesemir said, his tone serious, but his expression hinting at concern.

“No, but they have dragons on their side now. As the thaw moves northward, so do they. They have already entered Kaedwen. At first we thought Nilfgaard to be targeting a spot between here and Ard Carraigh. However, our most recent intel suggests they know where the trail to your keep begins and are moving toward it. A small camp already stands at the base of the mountains.”

“What do we do?” Eskel was the first to ask, looking around the small group. “We’re not enough to stand against any army.”

Jaskier looked thoughtful.

“How many dragons?” Vesemir asked.

“Not that many,” Jaskier replied. “Vojak and I took out as many as we could for a reason after all. A dozen remain at most. Not all of whom are entirely loyal to Alduin, and not all willing to risk their lives knowing there’s a _Dovahkiin_ here.”

“Oh, right. Just a dozen,” Lambert agreed sarcastically. “Just a dozen fire breathing monsters from another Sphere.”

Jaskier’s mouth twitched into a brief smile.

“And ice breathing,” he quipped, Lambert shooting him a startled glance. “But that aside, we already have one here on our side, and I can call many more who will heed me as _Thurii_.”

“ _Thurii_ ,” Ciri repeated, thinking on her lessons. “Their …lord?”

“Overlord would be more accurate.”

“Still. Six of us, seven if the Rectoress is in and a dozen dragons against an army with their own dragons still doesn’t even the odds. Not if we want to win,” Lambert lamented.

“What if we don’t need to win?” Jaskier asked, looking around. “What if we just need to stall for a short while? If I can send Alduin back to Skyrim the other _dov_ will go with him, tethered to him as they are.”

“It would certainly be a good motivator for Nilfgaard to retreat if they lost their dragon allies. But you can’t expect six of us to hold against an army while you fight Alduin,” Geralt spoke.

“No, of course not. But what if we could rally a few more? Transport them here via portal?” He asked looking between the two sorceresses.

“There are a few others we could ask. Ones I would trust,” Tissaia agreed.

“Triss,” Yennefer suggested.

“Sabrina too,” Tissaia added. “Your friend, Istredd?”

Yennefer’s face flushing red was a sight to behold.

“Istredd,” Yennefer agreed.

“Other witchers?” Lambert suggested.

“Not your damn Cat,” Eskel groaned, but there was a laugh in his voice.

“Aiden would come if I asked,” Lambert protested. “Coën?”

“The Viper you told me about?” Jaskier suggested. Geralt scowled.

“I am not asking Letho of Gulet for any favors.”

“Geralt.”

The White Wolf snarled like his namesake.

“Fine. I’ll fucking ask. But don’t cry when he tries to gut me instead.”

Jaskier grinned, even as Vesemir frowned.

“That’s still only thirteen against Nilfgaard.”

“We held Sodden with twenty-two,” Tissaia reminded him, though it wasn’t much of a boast. They had lost fourteen.

“I might have an idea,” Jaskier said. “But I don’t know if it will work.”

“And?” Yennefer asked after he didn’t explain further.

He shook his head slowly.

“See about your allies, and I’ll see about mine,” he left them in the room as he pulled his hood up and went to the courtyard where Paarthurnax sat atop the wall.

Tissaia and Yennefer immediately set to work opening portals to explain the situation to the other mages and witchers. Despite being met with confusion (“How did they even get past the Sodden and the Northern Kingdoms?” “Fringilla most likely, they’ve been moving small groups through all winter.”) and disbelief (“You want us to try to stall an army with dragons?” “Yeah.” “Fuck. Okay, sure, I’m in.”) and scorn (“The White Wolf wants the help of the Kingslayer?” “I’d rather you die, you son of a whore. But we can’t do this alone.” “Could be fun. But only because you beg so nicely.” “Fuck you.”) they soon found Kaer Morhen busier than it had been in years with the addition of six additional witchers and mages.

“So where’s this Dragon brat?”

“Dragonborn,” Eskel corrected automatically, already annoyed at the Cat.

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Lambert laughed, the asshole.

“He’s probably out with his dragon.”

Tissaia turned to him sharply.

“There’s a dragon _here_?”

Letho out a low whistle.

“What kind? Red? Green?”

Geralt scoffed.

“It’s one from Skyrim, the other sphere Alduin is from. Jaskier summoned him here.”

Heads around the room turned to him before Letho burst out laughing.

“Jaskier? What sick son of a bitch names their kid buttercup?”

“He did,” Yennefer replied drolly. Which only made Letho laugh harder.

“That’s one fucked up family,” the Viper howled.

“He’s a bard,” Eskel was pinching the bridge of his nose and wondering at the wisdom of seeking help from the outsiders now present. “It’s his stage name.”

“Wait, wait,” Letho’s laughter had cut off. “You mean to tell me that the legendary warrior you’re asking us to follow into battle, this dragonslayer from another world, is a fucking _bard_?”

“And a decently talented one at that,” Yennefer affirmed, inspecting her nails and ignoring the looks she was receiving from the other mages.

“ _Yennefer_ ,” Geralt growled. He was about to tell Ciri to go with Yennefer and the mages to get them set up with rooms when he looked around realized the girl wasn’t with them any longer. “Wait, where is-”

He was interrupted by an echoing crack of thunder.

” ** _Hun kaal zoor_**!”

“Fuck.”

Geralt turned and bolted from the gathering, though the others were all hot on his heels, spurred by their desire to see both dragon and Dragonborn.

They exited to a near empty courtyard, save the wizened dragon perched on the wall, Ciri sitting beneath him. She was apparently receiving a lesson in _Dovahzul_ while Jaskier paced nearby, hood and cowl loose around his neck.

There was no sign of the Shout or its affect.

“Fuck,” Lambert’s Cat, Aiden was the first to speak, his eyes wide at the sight of the dragon perched on Kaer Morhen’s wall.

“Fuck,” Letho agreed with a nod. “And you said Nilfgaard has this kind of dragon on their side?”

“Gods,” Istredd breathed, his pale eyes wide. “I never imagined I would see such a thing. A dragon from another _Sphere_.”

Coën was silent, his golden gaze fixed on the terrifying looking beast. At his side, his hand was clenched, itching to grab a sword.

Paarthurnax turned his head to look at the Dragonborn.

“ _Drem, Zulnehdir_. _Pah naal tiid._ ”

“ _Mindoraan_ , I just-” He spun away again. “I can _feel_ it. So why isn’t it working?”

“ _Drem_ ,” the dragon repeated. “ _Hin grah-zeymahzin fen bo._ ”

Ciri looked up at him.

“I know _drem_ is peace, and _naal tid_ is with time, but I didn’t catch the rest,” she lamented with a frown. The great dragon chuckled.

“ _Zulnehdir_ must be patient, all things with time. His _grah-zeymahzin_ will come at his call.”

“Isn’t _zeymah_ brother? You often call him _mal zeymah_ , your little bother.”

“ _Werid_ , _daan_ _kiir_. _Grah-zeymahzin_ is battle companion, a shield-brother or ally.”

“And we certainly aren’t about to abandon our shield-brother and Harbinger,” a new voice spoke. A woman, appearing in the courtyard an orb of light, not unlike Jaskier’s summoning of Arvak. She appeared ghostly and transparent before solidifying.

“Blood running hot?” She asked Jaskier with a grin. Her long reddish hair was long and loose, framing her war-painted face. Her outfit was of leather, mail, hide, and plate all in one, and she was armed with both sword and bow. “Still prefer that fancy ebony over good quality Skyforge Steel? Eorlund would be so disappointed.”

“Aela,” Jaskier’s reply was breathy, as if he couldn’t believe it. Before he could say more the glowing orb sent two more ghostly figures through. They became solid as they stepped out of it and into the chilly air of the Blue Mountains. Both were men with hair on the longer side, though not as long as the woman or even Jaskier. They bore similar features, though one was darker in hair and general appearance than the other and were both adorned in heavy armor, one with a noticeable motif of wolves. They both wore greatswords sheathed on their backs.

“Harbinger,” greeted the darker of the two.

“Shield-brother,” the other spoke with a nod.

“Vilkas, Farkas. You’re – how is this possible?”

“We heard your call, Harbinger,” Aela said as the two men came to stand beside her. Jaskier closed the gap between them. “And then…Kodlak. He spoke to us from Sovngarde. He said you called for aid and that Shor would aid in opening a bridge. We wouldn’t leave you to fight without us.”

Jaskier grasped the woman’s shoulders as she continued to grin at him, a moment of panic flashing across his face before he realized-

“Aela, you- you’re cured.”

Her smile slipped just a hint.

“I still don’t believe our gift was a curse, but… there was wisdom in your words. There is greater honor in fighting with my own strength.”

“Seems you had some wisdom for Aela after all,” the lighter of the two men quipped.

“Shut it, icebrain!”

“Aela,” the darker man barked. “Now is not the time.”

“Vilkas,” Jaskier reached out clasped the arm of the wolf-armored man, who returned it fiercely.

“The Companions are well in your stead, Harbinger, and await your return. But for now, we are here to fight beside you.”

Jaskier shook his again in disbelief, looking over the three with a smile. Farkas, the lighter haired man, returned it broadly.

“It’s our honor to fight beside you once more, Jaskier.”

“Wait,” Coën whispered loudly. Loud enough that even strangers from Skyrim could hear it. “ _That’s_ your bard, Jaskier? The Dragonborn?”

“Dragonborn, bard, whatever you want to call him. To us he is Harbinger and Shield-Brother to The Companions.”

“What’s a Companion?” Sabrina asked, looking at the small group of strangers.

“A guild of warriors and adventurers who honor the memory of heroes old,” Jaskier answered over his shoulder. “And we, all of us, are members.”

He looked back at Vilkas.

“I’m almost afraid to ask who’s handling work if you’re all here with me.”

“Athis and Njada have the most experience after us, even though they aren’t yet members of the Circle. The Companions will be fine with them until we return.”

“Don’t you mean if?” Lambert rumbled. “Not sure what you’ve heard yet, but we’re facing an army.”

“Oh fantastic, as if the Imperials weren’t enough, we get to cut down another army of fools,” Aela remarked.

Jaskier was strangely quiet, a frown on his face, he looked toward Paarthurnax.

“Harbinger?” Vilkas asked quietly, following his glance. “Jaskier?”

“There’s something… you’re here. You came, but the Shout is still _there_. I can still feel it.”

“ _Pah naal tiid, Dovahkiin_ ,” the dragon repeated.

“ _Vonmindoraan._ ”

Paarthurnax chuckled again.

“ _Saraan_ , and you will see.”

Jaskier frowned again, but then shook his head.

“I’m being rude aren’t I? Come, let me introduce you.”

The three Companions followed their Harbinger to the assembly of witchers and mages who had stepped more into the courtyard to watch Jaskier and the arrival of the strangers, and to closer inspect the dragon peering down at them.

“May I introduce the Companions of Jorrvaskr, Aela the Huntress and the twins, Vilkas and Farkas.”

The Companions nodded as they were introduced.

“And this is Vesemir, master of the keep Kaer Morhen, and home to the School of the Wolf.”

“The witchers,” Vilkas commented. “Jaskier spoke of your skills highly. Sang of them too.”

Geralt shot Jaskier a look, but the bard continued on, ignoring it.

“Lambert, Eskel, and Geralt, are all Wolf school witchers and- I’m sorry, I don’t actually know the rest of you.”

“Coën, School of the Griffin,” the dark man waved, before looking at back at the dragon.

“Letho of Gulet, Viper,” the large, bald man rumbled.

“Aiden, Cat,” the last man said with a cheeky grin.

“This lovely, _terrifying_ woman is the sorceress Yennefer of Vengerberg, and her friends. Sisters? Fellow devils?”

“Fuck off, bard,” Yennefer retorted, in many ways relieved to be back on familiar ground with the bard. “My mentor, Tissaia de Vries of Aretuza, and my sisters Triss and Sabrina. And this is Istredd, another member of the Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

“Hmm. Companions don’t fight with magic, but if the Harbinger trusts you, we’ll fight alongside you,” Farkas commented.

“That reminds me,” Vilkas looked toward Jaskier. “Your weapons and armor, how are they holding up?”

Jaskier shrugged.

“As well as can be expected. I’ve done what I can with what’s available.”

The wolf-armored man nodded.

“Eorlund thought that may be the case. He sent along some supplies for you.”

Jaskier grinned unexpectedly.

“All the while lamenting my choice of trash over his Skyforge Steel?”

Aela laughed.

“He’s started to branch out a _little_ after you showed him the dragon bone dagger you’d made, but he _is_ known for his steel.”

The Companions jostled Jaskier at this, who took it in stride with a grin, though the others felt they were missing the humor of the situation. Vesemir had the good sense to direct the conversation.

“Perhaps it would be best to move this inside,” he said gruffly. “Snow’s starting again.”

“A little snow never stopped us,” Farkas rumbled. “But I’d be glad to get out of this weather.”

Vesemir led the assorted group of witchers, mages, and the Companions into the keep. Geralt turned to make sure Ciri was following and she glanced between him and the dragon watching them go.

She turned and gave the dragon a curtsy.

“ _Kogaan fah tinvaak._ ”

Paarhurnax’s great head dipped in a nod.

“It was my pleasure, _kulaas_.”

Ciri gave a delighted grin and sprinted inside, and Geralt moved to follow when he noticed Jaskier still looking at the courtyard, his hands clenched at his sides.

“Jask?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you coming?”

“I…in a minute. Once it wears off.”

“Once what wears off?”

“The Shout,” Jaskier looked back around the courtyard, looking confused. “It’s still…active. I can still feel it resonating.”

“As I said, _mal gein_. These things take time,” Paarthurnax rumbled.

“And perhaps, with time, you will name J’zargo Arch-Mage in your stead, yes?” A new voice purred as a new orb of light swirled in the courtyard. Three figures emerged from it, just as the Companions had.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed, though his tone was fond and he was grinning broadly.

“These sands are cold, but Khajiit feels warmness seeing you again, friend.”

“J’zargo,” Jaskier greeted, moving to approach the three newcomers in the courtyard. Jaskier again welcomed the stranger warmly, with a firm clasp of hands. Geralt startled when he saw a tail sway. The man Jaskier had greeted…was a cat.

“Always knew you would come begging for this one’s help, yes? And now you have. I am pleased.”

“You’re still a bastard,” Jaskier laughed.

“I never would have suspected that I could see another world, and now I am,” the other man breathed, looking around the keep.

“Onmund,” Jaskier grasped his arms tightly as well. “Are you okay with being here?”

“You called, Jaskier. I’m honored to be here, and I feel as though I could take on all of Skyrim. Or…whatever you need help with. Just, uh, let’s make sure my family doesn’t hear about this?”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Jaskier assured the mage.

The young woman gave him a hug of greeting.

“This is _definitely_ better than sitting around talking about magic and theory.”

“You say that now,” Jaskier replied, smiling yet solemn. “Are you nervous?”

“Why? Because I’m in a foreign world? Were you nervous when you arrived in Skyrim?”

“Yes.”

She laughed.

“I am a little nervous,” she admitted. “This isn’t like travelling from Morrowind to Skyrim, is it?”

“It’s a little different,” he agreed.

“It is difficult to admit, but J’zargo is not pleased in this cold.”

“Ah, um, Geralt, could you take them inside and introduce them? This is J’zargo, Onmund, and Brelyna from the College of Winterhold.”

==

Jaskier pulled the fur around his shoulders tighter against the snow blowing across the dark road as he trudged up the road towards Winterhold. The shadow of a tall tower was visible in the distance, but he knew it was still a ways off. The road was clearly not well traveled, the cobblestones broken and barely visible in many spots, the fence along the road crumbling and in a state of disrepair. The wind howled loudly around him.

Still, his pace was steady through the wind with a promise that the College held some of the answers he sought. Hope that there was some understanding to be found in this strange world.

A rustle made him freeze on the path, his hand going to the elven bow on his back, an arrow at the ready.

A snarl came from the side of the road and out of the white leapt a sabre cat. Its lunge fell short, barely missing Jaskier as he quickly backed up and grabbed another arrow. The sabre cat jumped at him again as he slipped on an icy cobblestone and fell to the ground, the heavy weight of the sabre cat on him and he took a shallow breath. The sabre cat’s claws pierced his armor on his upper arm and he felt the warm trickle of blood against his skin beneath it.

“ ** _Raan mir tah_**.”

The white beast backed away and sat down calmly under the influence of the Shout and Jaskier sat up, breathing deeply, warily eyeing the sabre cat.

It licked its paw and rubbed at its face for a moment, before giving a shake of its head and meandering away from the road. Jaskier watched it vanish into the blowing white snow before pulling himself up and gathering his fallen bow. Clutching his bleeding arm, he resumed his trek along the mountain into Winterhold, still checking the sight of the College as he approached. He could make out a few more details the nearer he got, though the dark sky and wind still obscured most of it. There was a large tower adorned with a stained glass window, high walls all the way around, two smaller towers, and the land it was on was strange from what he could see. It almost looked like it was floating. The building positively loomed over the village that came into view, little more than the single road he was already following with a few buildings on either side of it, some in ruins that were nothing more than stone foundations and rotting structure beams.

He passed the longhouse marked with the banners of the Hold and caught sight of the next building with a sign proclaiming it The Frozen Hearth.

An inn. Thank the gods.

He nodded to a patrolling guard as he climbed the few stairs leading to the door and pushed it open. He sighed in relief as he stepped into an inn as familiar as any other he’d been to in Skyrim. A well stoked fire burned merrily in the middle of the room, surrounded by tables and benches where patrons could sit and enjoy the warmth at their backs as they ate and drank. The stone floors were covered in fur rugs and casks of ale and barrels of food were stored in the corners near stacks of firewood.

Jaskier approached the counter and bar.

“Welcome, traveler! Name’s Dagur. If there’s anything you need, let me know.”

Jaskier pulled his hand away from the blood on his arm.

“You wouldn’t happen to have any bandages or a healing potion would you?” He asked with a grimace.

Dagur frowned.

“Afraid not, friend. Just food for the hungry and drink for the thirsty, but I might be able to find something to help.”

The blonde Nord stepped away with a nod and jogged down a flight of stairs behind the bar, emerging a few moments later with a wrap on linen that looked clean.

“It’s not much, but this should help,” he said offering it over.

Jaskier murmured a thank you and removed the armor as much as he could to wrap the sluggishly bleeding claw marks. Once it was tightly wrapped, he pulled the armor back on and looked back at the man who offered him a small smile.

“So what can you tell me about Winterhold?”

“Not much, there’s not much here anymore. Talk to Birna for supplies in the morning. Otherwise, it’s mostly people here for the College, but even that traffic isn’t what it used to be.”

“The College,” Jaskier murmured. “I’ve heard it has a library?”

“If it does, I couldn’t tell you anything about it. The mages don’t let us inside.”

“Hmm.”

He tossed a few coins between them and asked for an ale, moving to sit closer to the fire as he sipped on it. Finishing the drink, he moved back toward Dagur.

“Would you happen to have an available room?”

“Business with the College?”

Jaskier hummed an affirmative sound.

“Aye, you’re welcome to stay here. Let me show you which one is yours. Tell me if you need anything else.”

Dagur gestured him to a small room off the main hall and Jaskier shrugged out of his armor, tucking it, his weapons, and pack into the chest at the foot of the bed. He lay down and wrapped himself in the furs, asleep in minutes.

He blinked awake blearily, surprised at the how warm he was after the long trail to Winterhold and unsurprised about the ache in his arm. The linen Dagur had supplied didn’t seem any worse off than it had the previous night, so it seemed the claws hadn’t gotten very deep and the bleeding had stopped.

Dagur greeted him quietly as soon as he stepped into the main hall after pulling his gear back on, ensuring that he still had Gallus’ journal with him. The innkeeper offered him a breakfast of surprisingly fresh apples, warm bread, and milk which Jaskier accepted before leaving the inn to head toward the college.

The village was bright, though the wind was still howling and blowing snow through the street and Jaskier’s arm throbbed where the sabre cat had gotten him. The few guards patrolling the road greeted him as he passed, heading toward the general goods trader Dagur had told him of up the road, Birna.

She did, thankfully, have a healing potion available and he immediately pulled away the armor on his arm after stepping outside before he popped the cork and poured half of it onto the claw marks. They closed in moments and the throbbing ache vanished.

He sighed in relief before drinking the rest.

With that taken care of, he continued down the road toward the College, taking in the strange sight of the destroyed house and buildings. Dagur hadn’t had much to say on it, but Jaskier had heard the stories elsewhere in Skyrim.

One day, half of Winterhold collapsed into the sea, and most blamed the College. Why else would it have survived the Great Collapse?

He approached the bridge, only to find the way blocked by a tall High Elf.

“The way is dangerous, and the gate is not open to you. You will not gain entry!”

“This is the College of Winterhold, isn’t it?” Jaskier asked, confused. He’d been sent here, how could he not be allowed in?

“It is, and I am here to assist those seeking the wisdom of the College and to deter those who may do more harm than good. This is a safe place for mages, wisdom, and arcane knowledge.”

“May I enter?”

“Perhaps. What do you seek within?”

“Well, I…”

I have a journal that I need to decode. I want to know more about what it means to be Dragonborn. I’d like to know if anyone else has traveled between Spheres.

“I just wanted to see what it looks like,” he muttered, fearing he had no good answer for her.

To his great surprise, she erupted in laughter.

“Humor is often in short supply here, but I sense that perhaps you’re after more than just that.”

Jaskier flushed, but nodded.

“It would seem the College has what you seek, but now the question is what can you offer the College. Not just anyone is allowed, you must show a degree of skill with magic. A small test.”

Jaskier felt his hope crumbling.

“Would you grant entry to the Dragonborn?” He asked hesitantly. It may not be what she was seeking, but it was certainly magic.

“Dragonborn?” She sounded awed and looked him over. “It’s been…so long since we’ve had any contact with Greybeards. The Voice. I would be most impressed to see that if you speak the truth.”

Jaskier offered a small smile and tilted his head toward clear skies.

“ ** _Fus_**!”

Thunder rolled around the mountains and into the ravine that divided the College from Winterhold and he turned back to the elven woman.

“It’s true. It’s _true_. You are Dragonborn! Normally I would say one should show aptitude in at least one school of magic, but _you_ …I think we can teach you much, and learn from you as you well. Welcome, Apprentice. I’ll lead you across the bridge.”

She gestured him to follow and realized she hadn’t been joking – the bridge to the College, like much of Winterhold, was crumbling and ruined. One slip, one wrong step and he could tumble down into the frigid waters of the Sea of Ghosts. Still following the High Elf, the gates swung open and Jaskier entered the College of Winterhold.

==

“Why?” Geralt stared at him. Jaskier shook his head slowly and Geralt’s eyes widened fractionally. “It’s _still_ active?”

“I think my Shout reached further than I originally thought. Unless I’m mistaken, there are still others coming.”

Geralt searched Jaskier’s gaze for a moment, then nodded and gestured the others inside the keep.

Luckily for the witcher, the residents of Skyrim took care of their own introductions. The sole human amongst the mages who entered the keep with him saw the other three visitors from Skyrim and recognized them immediately.

“Hail, Companions!”

The three hunters looked up at the newcomers and the woman spoke the same time Vesemir did.

“College mages.”

“More?”

“Aela,” the lighter of the twins, Farkas, spoke. “If Jaskier trusts them enough to call them, we should too.”

Geralt didn’t miss the interested gleam in Yennefer’s eyes when she heard they were _mages_ , and it was clearly echoed in the curiosity in the faces of others, who had little in common with the adventure seeking warriors. He turned to face Vesemir.

“Jaskier said the Shout is still working. I’m going back out, to see who else it calls here.”

Vesemir grumbled, even as he turned to Lambert and Eskel to determine what they had left for provisions in the pantry and for available rooms for sleeping.

Geralt let the residents of Skyrim introduce themselves (and to fend against the curiosity of the Continent’s sorcerers) as he slipped back outside into the courtyard. He wasn’t surprised to see Jaskier standing beside Paarthurnax, a quiet conversation in _Dovahzul_ between them.

Jaskier noticed him first.

“Geralt!”

“Thought you might like some company,” he supplied, feeling foolish as he looked at the dragon.

“Certainly,” Jaskier replied with a smile, and Geralt felt an echo of one tug at his own mouth.

“You’re…happy. Happier. Now that they’re here.”

Jaskier turned away, his face hidden by long hair and his hand pressed against Paarthurnax’s scales. “What do you mean?”

Geralt shook his head minutely.

“Ever since we met up on Rinde you’ve been…reserved. But…you talk to them the way you used to talk to me. Us. You tease and banter, you smile with them. I thought-” Geralt growled, cutting himself off, the words not coming as he’d hoped. “I thought we were better. After we talked.”

“We were. We are,” Jaskier insisted, stepping toward him and away from Paarthurnax, who politely shifted his head to indicate he was doing his best not to listen. “It’s- Geralt, all they’ve ever known me as is Dragonborn. The Companions taught me to wield weapons, to _be_ a weapon. The mages saw me face down magic nobody understood when I had nary a spell to my name. They’ve only ever known me as I was in Skyrim.” He shook his head. “I told you as much as I could, and I know you said it doesn’t matter what I did, but you all still look at me like I’m a foolish bard. And part of me is. But a lot of me is not.

“I’m happy they’re here, but I’m not _happier_. It’s just easier. It’s just easier that they know who I am, and not who I was. Before…before I wasn’t always a friend to you when I should have been. I _was_ useless often, and selfish just as much. I didn’t…I _couldn’t_ be that in Skyrim. And I don’t want to be that anymore.

“I never... in Skyrim, a few months ago, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was never going to see you again. That I had never gotten a chance to apologize for my selfishness. That I was never going to prove myself a worthy travel companion or a worthy friend.”

Geralt frowned and stepped closer.

“You are, and have for a long time, been my best friend. A worthy friend.” Jaskier looked shocked and he rushed to continue. “And I will _never_ stop being sorry that it took a stupid prophecy and another Sphere for me to tell you that is how I see you.” Geralt shook his head, his jaw clenched. “Everything else is inconsequential after that. That is who you are to me. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

“Geralt-”

“Geralt? Your famous White Wolf?” An unfamiliar voice asked, and two men turned to see another orb of light appear.

Jaskier spun around, the delight on his face evident.

“Brynjolf!”

“Easy lad,” the newcomer laughed, even as he pulled Jaskier into a brief hug. “I wasn’t certain if I’d ever see you again.”

“Not so easy getting here?”

“No risk,” Brynjolf began.

“No reward,” Jaskier grinned.

Geralt noticed then that the man, and the woman who had appeared but remained silent both wore the same armor as Jaskier, though their hoods were down.

“Nightingales?” He wondered aloud. They all turned to look at him.

“Indeed,” the woman spoke, her voice low and husky. She had the same gray skin as the Dark Elf mage who’d already arrived, with the exception of her bright violet eyes. “The Trinity. Nocturnal’s Agents. Shadows, thieves, and damned good at what we do.” She too gave Jaskier a hug. “It is good to see you again, Nightingale.”

“And you, Karliah. Still feeling that inner peace?”

“Walking in shadow does help.”

“And keeps your pockets full?”

She laughed.

“I’ve missed your light, Jaskier.”

“Aye, the lass is right. The Guild feels too quiet without you around. But, I’ve got good news for you. Our arrangement with Maven isn’t severed, but it favors the Guild far more. I was hoping the next time I saw you that I’d be able to tell you the Guild was entirely free of her influence but-”

“All things with time,” Jaskier said, glancing at Paarthurnax with a smile. “You aren’t the first, and you aren’t the last, there are others who answered the Call inside, if you want?”

“Ah, as long as it’s not those insufferably honorable Companions or the kids from the College who follow you like ducklings.”

Jaskier’s face was carefully blank.

Brynjolf laughed.

“Just my luck.”

“Seems you’ve done something to upset our Lady of Shadows, Byrnjolf.”

“I did no such thing!” He said, even as he nodded as at Jaskier and stepped toward the keep’s entrance.

“You did lose the bet!” Jaskier called after him.

“I did not!”

“Did so!”

“Bet?” Geralt interrupted as they two thieves let themselves into Kaer Morhen. To his immense surprise, Jaskier flushed red.

“I offhandedly mentioned the value of cheese wheels one night when we had a bit too much mead at the Ragged Flagon and we made a bet over who could steal more.”

“Cheese.”

“It was rather good cheese?”

Geralt closed his eyes and released his breath slowly.

“How much did you steal?”

Jaskier hummed a non-committal sound.

“How much?”

“Last time I checked...I had stolen around two hundred wheels? And this isn’t little cheese bits either, these are the wheels of cheese weighing several pounds. Lydia often wondered why we would be carrying so much cheese.”

“I am sworn to carry your burdens, no matter how strange.”

Jaskier spun back around where another figure appeared in the courtyard.

“Lydia!”

“Honored to see you again, my Thane.”

“Lydia, what have I told you about calling me that.”

“As you wish. My Thane,” she replied cheekily. “So, this is your home.”

“This is Kaer Morhen, Geralt’s home. But this is the Continent.”

“If it’s important to you, I’ll guard it with my life,” she glanced around, eyes lingering on the single moon bright in the sky. “A different world. Never thought I’d see one.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” he offered.

She offered him a small smile, then looking toward Geralt.

“And you must be Geralt of Rivia.”

“You know of me?”

“I imagine I know more of you than you do of me,” she said. “When I found out Jaskier wasn’t from Tamriel I asked him many questions about his home, and to my surprise most of his stories weren’t about him, but about _you_.”

“Lydia, we talked about this,” Jaskier said, with a sigh.

“Yes, yes,” she said, fingering the hilt of the sword at her side. “Your muse, the friend of humanity, the witcher.”

“Lydia.”

She smiled at him.

“I am your sword and your shield,” she said simply.

“And I am forever grateful for that. Vilkas and a few others from the Companions are inside the keep, if you wanted to join them.”

“The Companions? Well I suppose they make for good company,” she hesitated. “I am honored you would call me to fight by your side.”

“Lydia…”

She grinned.

“My Thane.”

She moved into the keep, her laughter audible over Jaskier’s shout of “Damn it, Lydia!”

“Your housecarl?” Geralt asked, after the woman went inside.

“From Whiterun, yes. But honestly the only one I ever really got close to. I had homes in other cities, other holds as you know, but Breezehome was where I spent the most time.”

“So you’re not expecting your other housecarls to show up?”

“No,” he shook his head. “No, but the Shout is still there. Someone is still coming.”

The door to the keep swung open and Yennefer strolled out, her expression furious.

“You lying sack of _shit_.”

“Yennefer, what are you-”

“Stay out of this Geralt,” she stormed up to Jaskier, her expression furious. “You _lied_.”

“An omission of truth,” Jaskier replied evenly.

“Is a lie of omission!” Yennefer snarled. “The _greatest_ aptitude the College had seen in centuries. That’s what they said about you. And you chose to ignore it?”

“I was a little busy, Yennefer. With a prophecy? With a dark dragon with whom my fate is tied?”

“Oh, yes. Because your dark dragon was so important while you were off with your merry band of thieves and pile of puppies!”

“I thought I had more time!” Jaskier finally shouted. He looked stunned, even as he repeated it, quieter. “I thought I had more time. I didn’t… I had accepted that my life was in Skyrim. I had accepted that I was never going to make it home, back here. I had assumed after Alduin was dealt with I’d spend some time enjoying the College properly, learning each school. Help Vilkas recruit new Companions. See what other lost _Rotmulaag_ we could find.

“And then Alduin spoke of our previous fight, a fight I didn’t remember. His lieutenants knew who I was before I’d ever met them. And then I found out that I hadn’t just been pulled through Spheres, but to another time.

“It was obvious, then. Alduin had returned to Skyrim because _I_ had sent him there. And the only way for me to do that was to travel through the Time-Wound to where he was. And out of all the possibilities, all the places he could have been sent – it was _here_.

“I stopped dreaming about seeing the Continent ages ago. I no longer had plans to return here. I truly never thought I would.”

“And yet,” Geralt spoke, a strange emotion burning in his chest. “here we are.”

Jaskier didn’t reply as a new voice interrupted.

“Is now a bad time?”

A look of shock, followed by joy crossed Jaskier’s face. If he had seemed delighted by any of the other arrivals before it paled in comparison to his delight at the woman approaching now.

“Serana,” Jaskier breathed, turning to meet her and pulling her into a tight embrace. She laughed and returned it easily; neither let go, but they separated slightly. He looked at her in joy and disbelief. “Serana.”

“There you are. I knew you’d miss me.”

Jaskier let out a laugh that was closer to a sob, even as he pressed a hand to her cheek.

Geralt recognized the name from Jaskier’s long story. Serana. A pure-blooded vampire he’d found in a crypt and helped avoid a prophecy about blotting out the sun. A vampire he’d let turn him to find a fucking scroll. A woman who had taken his words to heart and sought a cure. A friend who looked just as happy to see Jaskier as he was to see her.

She was, objectively, rather lovely. Pale skin, dark hair adorned with braids, and a face that was sharp and soft all at once. Her eyes, blue, seemed to glow a little oddly.

“Still worrying too much?” She asked, her voice low.

“Always,” he returned.

“Come on, you didn’t really think I was going to let you have all the fun? I didn’t get to see Sovngarde with you, no way was I missing this.”

“Gods, I’ve missed you.”

“It’s only been a few months, Jask.”

“A long few months after you followed me around for so long.”

“Oh come on, you just took a little trip through time and space. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Never. I have you to thank for getting me this far.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s my line.”

Paarthurnax’s voice interrupted their reunion. Geralt and Yennefer both startled, somehow managing to forget the dragon had been there.

“ _Sos kiir_ , it is good to see you here.”

Serana peered around Jaskier to give the dragon a small wave.

“Glad to see the dream idea worked out, Paarthurnax.”

“You’re friends now?” Jaskier asked looking between them. “Huh.”

Serana elbowed him.

“You sent me across Skyrim to talk to him. And before I forget, I am going to _kill_ you for making me climb those godsdamned stairs. Do you _know_ how many there are, Jaskier?”

“Seven thousand,” he replied with a shrug.

“Seven _thousand_ ,” she echoed, though she was grinning and her eyes were alight with mischief.

Yennefer cleared her throat before they could start again and Jaskier turned around to see her and Geralt staring at them. Jaskier turned to face them properly and stepped aside, tugging Serana to stand beside him.

“Apologies, Geralt, Yennefer, this is Serana,” it was said with a wide, honest smile. Unlike the earlier arrivals, Jaskier made no attempt to qualify Serana. Not a Nightingale, not a mage, not a Companion, nor a housecarl. Just Serana. “Serana, this is Geralt of Rivia and Yennefer of Vengerburg.”

“Jask has told me about you, I’m glad to meet you.”

“Hmm.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.”

Serana’s smile didn’t slip at the frosty reception at all, instead she turned to Jaskier.

“Wow, I’m fairly certain that was verbatim how you’d say they’d react if we ever met.”

“And I believe you owe me a hundred gold.”

“You can’t even use it here!”

Jaskier just tutted at her and held out his hand. She dropped a small coin purse into it.

“As if you need it. What are you going to, buy another house?”

“Before I left I heard a new homestead was being built just outside of Whiterun…”

She laughed at him again, even as she shook her head.

“Can we at least get indoors or something? I thought I’d left Skyrim’s lovely weather behind me.”

“Yes, bard, is your Shout well and truly finished or are we expecting more guests?”

“More?” Serana asked. Jaskier shook his head.

“Inside, you’re the last.”

Inside the keep the main hall was louder than Geralt had ever heard it and fuller than it had been since before the sacking. Witchers and mages and Companions and thieves all scattered about exchanging stories of their homes. How strange to bring together people from two different worlds. He glanced at Jaskier, who was looking at the room with a look of contentment.

“It’s only an extra ten people,” he said as Yennefer took Jaskier’s last guest by the elbow and led her into the room.

Jaskier shook his head again.

“Not quite. Each of the Companions in combat is worth at least a dozen men, even without their beast blood. J’zargo’s fire magic is _wild_ and Onmund can chain lighting. Brelyna casts shielding almost without thinking about it and can conjure atronachs just as I can. Brynjolf and Karliah are both Agents of Nocturnal, and Lydia is the most godsdamned fierce woman I’ve ever met.

“And every single one of them has slayed a dragon.”

“Hmm,” he looked to where Yennefer had taken Serana, the former vampire’s hands alight with magic.

“And your vampire?”

“Don’t do that,” Jaskier frowned at him. “She’s _not_. And she’s still one hell of a magic user and a-”

He cut himself off and glanced away.

“And?”

“Necromancer. She’s a necromancer like her mother and she’s _good_ at it.”

“Fuck,” Geralt looked at the woman with the odd glow in her eyes as she looked toward them and winked at Jaskier.

“Besides,” Jaskier continued, not allowing Geralt to dwell on it. “I haven’t even called the dragons yet.”

A roar of laughter caught their attention and they turned to see the twins and Brynjolf loudly singing in _Dovahzul_. Jaskier winced, though whether it was to their discordant chorus or pronunciation of the Dragon language, Geralt didn’t know.

Ciri rushed over when she saw them.

“Jaskier! They said this is your song!”

“ _Dovahkiin, dovahkiin  
naal ok zin los vahriin  
wah dein volkul mahferaak ahst val!_

 _Ahrk fin norok paal graan  
fod nust hon zindro zaan  
Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal!_”

“I-no,” he shook his head, the braids by his face swinging. “It’s an ancient song, but after Alduin…well. Now everyone seems to know it.”

He frowned as the College mages joined in.

“Some better than others,” he muttered.

“But, why do they say it’s your song then?’

“ _Huzrah nu, kul do od  
wah aan bok lingrah vod  
Ahrk fin tey, boziik fun, do fin gein!_”

He crouched down and pressed a finger to his lips.

“Remember what you’ve been learning? Listen to them.”

“ _Wo lost fron wah ney dov  
ahrk fin reyliik do jul  
voth aan suleyk wah ronit faal krein_”

Geralt startled as the voices dropped to a chant, the strange words not just recognizable as _Dovahzul_ but words he’d heard before.

 _“Ahrk fin kel lost prodah,  
Do ved viin ko fin krah,  
Told fod zeymah win kein meyz fundein_!”

Ciri’s eyes went wide as she listened and turned to look at them, Geralt looking over to Jaskier in startled surprise at the same time. He knew those words. They’d written them down the best they could months ago, when he and Yennefer had heard them echoing.

“It’s the prophecy!”

Jaskier gave a small smile.

“It’s actually a song _about_ the prophecy. The actual _kel_ , the Elder Scroll that told of it…well, there’s no exact translation written anywhere else but the Scroll. The song is as close as it comes.”

“ _Alduin, feyn do jun  
kruziik vokun staadnau,  
voth aan bahlok wah diivon fin lein!_”

The visitors from Skyrim were all singing in a furious roar now, Serana and the quiet Nightingale, Karliah, included.

“ _Nuz aan sul fent alok  
fod fin vul dovah nok  
fen kos nahlot mahfaeraak ahrk ruz_! _  
Paaz Keizaal fen kos stin nol bein Alduin jot!_ ”

Ciri listened to the words, but looked up at Jaskier and frowned, shaking her head.

“I can’t make it out.”

He smiled at her.

“But a day shall arise  
When the dark dragon’s lies  
Will be silenced forever and then  
Fair Skyrim will be free from foul Alduin’s maw.”

Ciri’s mouth fell into an “O”.

“ _That’s_ why they all know it and it’s about you. You already saved Skyrim and it’s free from Alduin.”

He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“Soon that day will be here too. There will be no trading with Alduin or Nilfgaard. After all-”

He grinned, stepping away from them and joining the final chorus.

 _“Ahrk fin norok paal graan  
fod nust hon zindro zaan_!”

The Companions, the mages, the Nightingales, they all held their glasses raised toward Jaskier.

“ _Dovahkiin, fah hin kogaan mu draal_!”

Jaskier just smiled and shook his head good naturedly.

“The fiercest foes rout, when they hear triumph’s shout?” She asked, checking the interpretation.

He nodded and gave her the last line.

“Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray.”

“Blessing?” Geralt asked, glancing at him.

“Not a literal blessing, not exactly. But when we’re ready to face Nilfgaard and the Alduin, I have a shout that will prove useful.”

Geralt smirked.

“ ** _Zulnehdir_**.”

Jaskier frowned at him, the power of his Name pulling at him.

“I regret ever teaching you that.”

Geralt frowned when Jaskier looked away.

“Another ally pulled by your shout?”

“No,” Jaskier replied shaking his head. “But I have one more who said he’d follow me to the end. Cover for me?”

“Jask-”

Thunder rumbled.

Jaskier was already gone.

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hun kaal zoor_ : Literally, hero champion legend. Call of Valor, a shout which brings a hero of Sovngarde through time and space. Modified for my story.  
>  _Drem, Zulnehdir. Pah naal tiid_ : Peace, Zulnehdir. Everything with time  
>  _Mindoraan_ : I understand  
>  _Drem. Hin grah-zeymahzin fen bo_ : Peace. Your battle companions will come  
>  _Werid, daan kiir_ : Praise, destiny child  
>  _Grah-zeymahzin_ : Battle companions  
>  _Vonmindoraan_ : I don't understand  
>  _Saraan_ : Wait  
>  _Kogaan fah tinvaak_ : Thank you for speaking  
>  _Kulaas_ : Princess  
>  _Mal gein_ : Little one  
>  _Raan mir tah_ : Literally, animal allegiance pack. Animal Allegiance, a shout that turns wild beasts into allies.
> 
> [Song of the Dragonborn](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UsnRQJxanVM), with translation.
> 
> Just checked my current cheese count: 104 Eidar, 127 Goat. (Not including wedges or sliced, only wheels!) No reason, I honestly just thought it would be fun to steal cheese this time. Last time it was cabbage. Next time I'm thinking mead/ale.


	11. VENNESETIID (Destiny)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alduin at last. Enjoy the ride. :)

Twenty-three. They had twenty-three assorted mages, witchers, and warriors to go up against an unknown Nilfgaard force that had allied with Alduin and potentially a dozen dragons from Skyrim.

Twenty-three and whatever other ally Jaskier had shortly vanished to retrieve. He had returned looking equal parts relieved, smug, and overwhelmed. He hadn’t yet revealed as to why.

Ciri was furious she wasn’t being included.

“I can help!”

“The best thing you can do to help,” Yennefer had said gently, “Is to be here, safe, and ready to help anyone who is injured.”

The princess had growled her frustration, but it was Paarthurnax who was able to calm her.

“ _Daan kiir_ , there are many hungers it is better to deny than to feed.”

“But Nilfgaard is here because of me, I should be going to help! I can help!”

The dragon shook his great head and frowned at her.

“Do you have no reason for acting other than destiny? To be nothing more than a playing of fate?”

“Jaskier follows his destiny,” she argued. “He was destined to defeat Alduin, and now he’s going to do it again.”

“ _Vahzah_ , this is true. But the _Dovahkiin_ also walked a long path to this _daan_. He did not rush headlong into battle with The World-Eater when he learned of the prophecy. He learned all he could of _Keizaal_ and her people. He learned of the _Dovahkiin_ before him, and the _dov_ who are now his _zeymah_. He traveled to the school of the _kor_ and the home of the _tafiir_. He found _fahdon_ in his _sos kiir_ and many others. And though he faced Alduin alone, he let others help him on the way.

“Your _fahdon_ seek the same for you, _daan kiir_. It would be wise to let them.”

Ciri frowned, but looked back at the keep where inside she knew Jaskier and his strange allies from Skyrim were discussing strategy with Geralt, Yennefer, and the rest.

She had heard stories from them, in the days that had passed since they arrived, the snow finally giving away to spring thaw. Soon the melt would be far enough along that the pass would be open and they would have no choice but to face the force waiting for them.

The Companions, in their brutal honesty, informed them all of how this colorful whelp had walked into Jorrvaskr and was welcomed by the Harbinger to join them. How he rode across Skyrim to stop beasts and bandits on their behalf. How he had brought honor back to their Guild by helping them remove their curse.

The Nightingales, Brynjolf and Karliah spoke of how the Guild had been barely scraping by under the leadership of the traitor, Mercer Frey. How Brynjolf had found him in the Riften market and convinced him to join. How the Guild was _back_ in every hold in Skyrim. Respected and feared in a way it hadn’t been for years. How Karliah finally had closure and peace after years of being on the run for being falsely framed by Mercer. How the Guild was flourishing under the leadership of their new Guild Master.

The mages whispered excitedly in hushed, awed tones of an artefact found unexpectedly in a Nord tomb. How it corrupted and led to the death of their Arch-Mage and High Wizard at the College. How Jaskier had gone out looking for answers and came back just in time to put a stop to it and save them. All with steel and Shouts, and hardly a magic lesson to his name.

Lydia told stories of a man who stopped and exchanged kind words with just about everyone. Who was always willing to lend a hand to whomever asked, from simple errands to recovering stolen goods. She smiled at memories of a Dragonborn helping the farmers with their harvests, and running around the streets of Solitude when the children asked him to play.

Serana simply said he had saved her.

Ciri had heard about the things Jaskier had seen and done in Skyrim, so little of it related to his destiny as _Dovahkiin_ and his fate to fight Alduin.

She looked back at the dragon and nodded, resolved.

“I’ll be ready when they need me.”

“And they will need you, _mal gein_. They always will.”

==

“Well, the good news is that the force doesn’t appear to be as large as the one you described at …Sodden?” At the mages’ nods Brynjolf continued. “But it doesn’t make it any less formidable. We’d estimate a few thousand at least, likely more. Didn’t see the dark dragon, but there were at least six there that we counted.”

Brynjolf and Karliah had, with the pass clear, made their way down the trail and with their status as Agents of Nocturnal done a little reconnaissance of the Nilfgaard and dragon forces waiting for them at the base of the mountain.

“It’s obvious they have some idea of where your trail starts, if we all try to rush out… it would be like hunting a rabbit in a cage.”

“There’s no way we can sneak up on them,” Yennefer commented, looking at the map that had been drawn based on the information provided. “Any use of magic and Fringilla or any other mage would know immediately.”

Jaskier was peering at the map, rubbing at his chin thoughtfully.

“Bryn, they didn’t look like they were aware of you at all?”

“No, lad. Nocturnal’s Shadowcloak kept us concealed and hidden in shadow.”

“What are you thinking, bard?” Yennefer asked, a few of the residents of Skyrim bristling at the obvious jest.

He frowned and then looked at Karliah and Brynjolf.

“A diversion. Could you sneak into camp and create …something big? Like an explosion?”

“I could make a few bombs,” Lambert offered.

“Actually,” Jaskier looked at the Khajiit standing across the table. “J’zargo.”

“J’zargo is listening.”

“You …worked out the problem with your scrolls, right?”

“Ah, yes the Flame Cloak, yes. I have found what went wrong and am confident they will work. Or maybe not. We’ll see.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, even as Brynjolf shot him a concerned glance.

“That’s not very reassuring, lad.”

“No, but I’ve seen his work first hand and it’s exactly what we need. Besides,” he flashed a toothy grin at the thief. “You owe me a better performance than that Falmerblood bullshit in Riften.”

Karliah cut in before they could get continue.

“We have Lady Luck at our backs, Brynjolf. I leave it up to Jaskier.”

Jaskier nodded at her.

“J’zargo’s Flame Cloak scrolls are more explosive than the standard spell. What I’m thinking…what I’m thinking is the two of you sneak into camp and set them off. Then, do whatever you can to get out of camp. The cloak doesn’t do any good if they fire at you with arrows, but anybody in melee range will certainly feel it. The more fires you can start, the better.

“As soon as those two light up the camp, Paarthurnax, Odahviing, and Durnehviir can take riders down to flank the camp.”

Jaskier pointed out three spots on the map.

“They won’t be able to get too close, knowing there are other dragons down there, but it would give us the element of surprise to attack from multiple fronts.”

“How many riders can the dragons take?” Vesemir inquired.

“Six total, two each.”

“I thought you said you could call a dozen more?” Geralt asked with a frown.

Jaskier shook his head again.

“I can, but they…I don’t trust them to take you on my word as _thuri_ alone.”

Geralt frowned but nodded.

“Here’s where it gets good,” Jaskier said, that strange look of smug and awe on his face. “Vojak is waiting here.” He tapped a spot on the map. “With a couple hundred men and women. And here,” he tapped another spot. “King Foltest sent a few hundred as well, thanks to Triss.”

The mage smiled and nodded.

“I had hoped he’d be willing to help.”

There were some murmurs around the room, some of excitement and some of lament – they were still horribly outnumbered even with that.

“How?” Eskel asked, looking up.

Jaskier shrugged.

“A Shout. I can use it to get us to the start of the trail when the time comes as well.”

“Can’t you just spread us out around the field then, rather than have just six of us ride dragons?” Yennefer asked, one fine eyebrow arched in question.

He shook his head.

“It’s not that discreet, and I can only use it to return somewhere I’ve already been.”

Jaskier looked around the room and met eyes with each person there.

“Just remember, this isn’t a fight we’re trying to win. I just need you to buy me time.”

==

“ _Tiid nu_ ,” Paarthurnax rumbled, as soon as Jaskier stepped out in the courtyard to greet him. The Dragonborn did not look surprised at the words as he nodded, his expression firm and resolved all at once. He vanished into the keep to gather everyone. More than a few of them glanced his way when returned, for next to his bow and quiver across his back was a large scroll.

“An Elder Scroll,” Serana, murmured softly to the Brotherhood mages who had been whispering to each other about what it was. “A relic of creation, they say. It does not exist and has always existed.”

“There is a power to it,” Tissaia said, eyes fixed on it. “And yet, when I try to focus on it, it’s as though I’m compelled to look away.”

Serana’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile.

“The cost of reading an Elder Scroll is high. Blindness is most common, but readers pay in madness, even death,” she hesitated. “Jas had to read them, for me, to stop the Tyranny of the Sun from coming to pass.”

The violet-eyed sorceress looked startled and concerned as she looked at Serana.

“Jaskier read one of those things?”

Serana shrugged.

“It’s a long story.”

“Why does he have it though?” the mage with long blonde hair, Sabrina, asked.

“He’ll use it to send Alduin back to Skyrim, just as the heroes of old sent him from Skyrim years ago,” Vilkas offered as he approached them.

“Serana, Jaskier has asked you and I to take Odahviing to the east of the camp,” he said looking at the former vampire.

She nodded.

“I’ll have your back.”

“And I yours, shield-sister.”

The pair walked away, discussing strategy between them.

Triss looked around at the small groups as they finished checking armor, weapons, and supplies.

The strange cat-man, the Khajiit J’zargo, was handing thick scrolls to the two thieves who wore the same Nightingale crested armor as Jaskier. He was explaining how to use them, and listing a rather uncomfortably long list of possible issues. Aela, the fierce looking Companion woman, was running her hand over her quiver, counting the arrows there. Lydia was nodding to something Eskel was saying, both of them looking calm and ready.

“Your bard certainly does inspire, doesn’t he, Yennefer?” She asked, looking at the dark haired mage.

Yennefer’s lips twitched before her expression settled back on neutral.

“Isn’t that what bards are trained to do?”

“It’s time,” Jaskier’s voice rang out. He tilted his head back to the sky and called out two Shouts that echoed with thunder. “ ** _Odahviing_**. **_Durnehviir_**.”

“Bless you,” Lambert murmured, receiving a sharp elbow from Vesemir. “Ow.”

Twin roars echoed through the mountains and great shadows passed overhead. Two dragons landed on the walls of the keep; one red with wings of white, the other green and looking decayed.

The Snow-Winged Hunter, and the Undying Curse. Odahviing and Durnehviir.

“ _Drem yol lok, fahdon_ ,” Jaskier greeted as he approached, looking between them.

“ _Thuri_ , I am at your command,” the red dragon spoke.

“ _Qahnaarin_ , let us fly together,” the second rumbled.

After explaining the plan to the two dragons who would be carrying riders along with Paarthurnax, he turned back to the group assembled.

“Is everyone ready?” Jaskier looked around, meeting the eyes of everyone there, everyone who had agreed to fight against dragons and Nilfgaard alike.

He was met with nods and words of agreement. He nodded in return.

“Then all that’s left is this gift,” he shot a smile at Geralt. “This _blessing_ I can give you.

**_Mid vur shaan_**!”

The Shout echoed through the courtyard and Geralt looked down at himself in wonder as the magic of it rolled over and through him.

“I feel like I could take on all of Skyrim,” one of the Companions murmured.

“Even my claws feel sharper,” J’zargo agreed.

Lambert shot a grin at Eskel.

“Just point me to the fight.”

“Remember,” Vesemir said, stepping forward and looking around at the energized group. “We wait for the signal from the Nightingales. Our goal is to delay long enough for the Dragonborn to send Alduin and the rest away.”

The dragons roared.

“ _Nahlot Thu’umii_!” Paarthurnax bowed his head and Geralt nodded at Yennefer and together they approached the old dragon.

“Come, _fahdon_ , the battlefield awaits.” Odahviing was already spreading his wings, Vilkas and Serana perched on his back. They both looked excited to be riding a dragon.

Durnehviir was waiting patiently while Eskel and Lydia had a short argument about who should sit in front. Eventually the housecarl won and climbed onto the dragon’s neck, Eskel behind her.

“Harbinger,” Vilkas shouted down from dragon. “Talos guide you!”

“Glory to the Companions!” Jaskier shouted with a grin.

The dragons took to the skies.

Ciri watched them go with a whispered, “Good luck.”

Jaskier looked around the remaining group, looking solemn and ready. He nodded.

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

The shout echoed them to the start of the trail in the hills, just behind the tree line at the bottom, near the obscured entrance. The Nilfgaard camp was set back a ways, leaving a flat expanse of open field between them and the tree line. It would make anyone leaving the woods an easy target.

Jaskier surveyed what he could see of the camp and looked up to see two dragons he didn’t recognize circling lazily overhead.

“Nightingale,” Karliah whispered laying a hand on his shoulder.

He clasped a hand on her shoulder in return, and Brynjolf’s as he stepped closer.

“Walk in shadow, my friends.”

“We’re ready, let’s get this started,” Brynjolf grinned, pulling his hood up.

The two thieves nodded, and vanished in a swirl of magic into the Shadowcloak of Noctural, vanishing from view.

Jaskier had no idea where the pair were as they moved across the field and into the camp, but he knew they moved swiftly for it was only a short wait before the first Flame Cloak scroll was activated and fire erupted in the middle of the camp, the second following moments later.

“Sovngarde or victory!” He heard Farkas shout.

Lambert let out a wordless roar.

They broke from the trees as the camp went up in flames. Dragons in the sky above swooped down spewing fire and ice. Jaskier sprinted to the nearest one and Shouted.

“ ** _Gol hah dov_**.”

The dragon landed, turning his head to the Dragonborn, the power of the shout forcing him to the ground and into submission.

“ _Thuri_. I am at your command.”

It was not spoken with fondness, the way Odahviing did when called upon, but rather with a strange detachment. Part of Jaskier hated it, but _Bend Will_ was a necessary evil in this moment. A group of Nilfgaard soldiers nearby looked terrified at the sight of the dragon bowing to the man. Jaskier climbed onto his back, it was time to find Alduin.

“ _Bo._ ”

“ _Geh, thuri_.”

The dragon took back to the skies and with a word from Jaskier breathed fire on the Nilfgaard camp as he did. The dragon flew a wide circle around the camp, Jaskier watching the Nilfgaardians reacting to the fire and the attack. Panic and chaos ensued across the camp, just as they’d hoped.

He picked out Vojak, who met his look with a cocky grin, his blade raised high and leading his hundred strong into the fray.

No sign of Alduin.

The Nilfgaardians had nine other dragons in the skies over their camp now, not including the one Jaskier had employed using _Bend Will_. Three were occupied by Durnehviir, Odahviing, and Paarthurnax, but Jaskier decided it was time to even the odds and keep the dragons focused on the sky.

Thunder rumbled as he Shouted.

“ ** _Ninvahgol_**. **_Odfonax_**. **_Kulvedviin_**. **_Boksilthaarn_**. **_Aakreltuz_**. **_Silduulviir_**.”

The roaring tore through the skies as the six dragons called from Skyrim joined the fight high above, and their Thu’um were resonant as fire and ice blazed between them.

Jaskier’s relief at having all of the dragons occupied was short lived as an eerie fog rolled in and darkened the sky with a terrifying echo from a voice Jaskier knew well.

“ ** _Ven mul riik_**!”

Alduin had arrived.

==

Nahkriin fell into a pile of dust, just as the other Dragon Priests Jaskier had encountered across Skyrim had done upon defeat, and with his death his staff clattered to the ground. Jaskier picked it up and placed it back into the seal; the portal to Sovngarde blazed back to life, a roaring swirl of blue-white-gold bursting up toward the clouds and howling like a fierce wind.

This was it. There was no turning back.

On the other side, Sovngarde waited. On the other side, Alduin.

On the other side, destiny.

Jaskier stood at the top of Skuldafn for a moment, looking at the portal and idly rubbing his fingers together, his thoughts a chaotic tumble of everything that had brought him to this moment.

A dragon trapped in Whiterun’s keep.

An ancient scroll from beyond time.

Words of power hidden across the land.

A prophecy.

A wall.

A shout.

A storm.

Everyone he’d met on the way.

Everywhere he’d been.

Every word of power.

Every skill.

Every kill.

He shut his eyes tightly and thought about _before_. Before this destiny. Before this prophecy. Before Skyrim.

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” he said to the wind. “I wish…I wish I could have been a better friend. A worthy travel companion.”

Opening his eyes he stepped toward the portal.

Sovngarde waited, and he would either return a hero-

Or he wouldn’t return at all.

The world around him howled, light blinding, his feet lifting off the ground. For a moment he blacked out.

Jaskier opened his eyes to a world cloaked in night. A sky full of stars shone overhead, painted with auroras dancing in a rainbow of colors, all swirling toward a star that shone bright like the moon. Beautiful, yet not blinding.

There was a solemn song of glory on the wind and the trail to Shor’s Hall of Valor was lined with statues of the heroes who had come before.

Jaskier breathed deeply to steady himself, then began making his way down the trail. As he reached the bottom of the first flight of stairs, a familiar roar sounded in the distance, and he frowned as a thick fog rolled in, obscuring the path he was following.

Another roar, a shadow of wings.

Alduin.

Jaskier clenched his jaw and pushed deeper into the mist. He was surprised when a figure emerged from the fog, a Stormcloak, warning him to turn back.

“Who are you?” Jaskier asked instead.

The Stormcloak spoke of an Imperial ambush. A dead man then. He spoke of the mist, stealing away all who entered, unable to navigate through it to Shor’s Hall, cursed to wander instead and at the mercy of the dark dragon.

“I’m here for Alduin,” Jaskier reassured the spirit. “It’ll be over soon.”

“Beware,” the man warned, his eyes wide. “The World-Eater waits in the mist.”

He vanished into the fog, and Jaskier took a deep breath before moving forward. Following the sloping trail down and around a rocky hill, round it to find himself face to face with-

“There is no escape, courage is useless,” a despondent voice pierced through the veil of fog.

Alduin stared at him. Jaskier froze. Silently, the dragon took the skies. Once more hidden by the thick, unnatural clouds, his roar shook the ground beneath Jaskier’s feet.

Jaskier steeled himself against the fear that threatened to boil over and forced himself on, deeper still into the fog.

Shor’s Hall waited. It would all be over soon.

He pushed forward despite Alduin’s cry, the flutter of his wings overhead. And through the heavy mist another figure emerged, this one familiar.

“Kodlak?” Jaskier breathed.

The old Harbinger turned to him.

“When I woke from cold death, my doom was lifted. There was Shor’s Hall, my heart’s desire. But now I wander, weary and lost.”

“Alduin,” Jaskier realized. The former Harbinger nodded.

“A bitter payment for bloody deeds, to be hunted as we once hunted.”

“You’ll see Shor’s Hall, Kodlak,” Jaskier promised as the fog around them seemed to press in, heavy and oppressive. “One way or another. You’ll see it.”

Kodlak had no further words for him and vanished into the gray. Jaskier pushed onward.

Great bones marked the bridge to the hall, and an inhumanly tall, fierce-looking man stood waiting. Jaskier approached cautiously.

“Halt! What brings you wayfarer, to wander here, the gift to the honored dead?”

Jaskier stepped forward with a confidence he wasn’t sure he felt.

“I pursue Alduin, the World-Eater.”

“A fateful errand. I, Tsun, shield-Thane to Shor judge those fit to enter this Hall of Valor. No shade are you, so by what right do you request entry?”

Harbinger. Nightingale. Arch-Mage. No. That’s who Skyrim made him, but why he was _here_ -

“By right of birth – I am Dragonborn!”

Tsun’s face split into a genuine smile.

“Too long has it been since I have faced a doom-driven hero of Dragon Blood! Living or dead, none may pass til I judge them worthy of the warrior’s test.”

Tsun was fast to unhook his axe and swing it at Jaskier who leapt back, grabbing his bow as he rolled away, and putting two arrow into the strange shade’s chest before he was back on his feet.

Tsun swung again at him viciously.

Jaskier breathed.

“ ** _Yol toor shul_**!”

The inferno of his Fire Breath pushed the shade back, and the large man hooked his axe behind him, yielding the short fight but looking pleased to do so.

“You prove your worth. Long has it been since the living entered here, may favor follow you and your pursuit.”

Jaskier nodded in thanks and hooked his bow across his back before moving to make his way across the Whalebone Bridge.

Through the door, Jaskier looked around and couldn’t help but feel awed. An eternal feast for the heroes of Skyrim, and a man he’d never seen but _knew_ walking toward him.

“Welcome Dragonborn!”

“Ysgramor,” Jaskier’s eyes were wide. The first and only leader of the Companions. The first man to walk Tamriel. Harbinger of us All.

“None have entered since Alduin set his soul-snare here, and we have sheathed our blades at Shor’s command. Three wait your word though; Gormlaith the fearless, Hakon the valiant, Felldir the old.”

Jaskier followed Ysgramor’s gesture to the three heroes who had sent Alduin through time at the Throat of the World, looking much as they did that fateful day centuries ago.

He nodded at Ysgramor who continued to look pleased and moved toward the three. Gormlaith recognized him first.

“At long last! Alduin’s fate is ours to seal. Speak and we will spite the worm.”

“Hold, comrades. Alduin’s mist is more than a snare. It is his shield and cloak, but,” he looked at Jaskier and smiled wide. “With four Voices joined we can bring the beast to battle.”

“The World-Eater is a coward, Dragonborn, and fears you. We will Shout at your side and our blades will sing beside yours.”

“To battle! May the fields echo with war!”

Jaskier could only nod in agreement, and though his heart was heavy, it was also brimming with an emotion he had thought lost.

Hope.

They exited the Hall to the excited murmurs of the heroes of old who bid their blades luck and good favor.

He followed the three heroes who had cast out Alduin back across the bridge to the mist, and together their Voices brought Clear Skies back to Sovngarde.

And then, black wings unfurled.

Alduin, the World-Eater.

Jaskier _breathed_.

“ ** _Joor zah frul_**!”

“ _Dovahkiin_! _Kel drey ni viik,_ not by them nor by you!”

What?

“ _Daar lein los dii_! I warned you before, if we met again _hin sil dii_! _Gro ulse_!”

Alduin’s words filled him with a sense of dread. At their last encounter the dark dragon had raged against Paarthurnax before retreating. He certainly hadn’t given Jaskier any warnings.

And certainly not _your soul is mine, bound forever_.

“This is your ending, Alduin,” Jaskier replied, arrows piercing the black hide as the dragon twisted and turned at the heroes surrounding him.

“ _Meyye_! _Tahrodiis aanne_! _Him hinde pah liiv_! _Zu’u hin daan_!”

“No! I am yours!”

The thunderous echo of a _Thu’um_ surrounded them as Tsun joined the battle.

” ** _Fus ro dah_**!”

“ ** _Joor zah frul_**!” Jaskier refused to give the World-Eater another chance to flee.

With bow and sword and axe on all sides, Alduin’s black wings finally drooped and the dragon let out a terrible keening roar.

“ _Nu hin sil dii, gro ulse_! _Zu’u unslaad_! _Zu’u nis oblaan_!”

Those words echoed deep within Jaskier, but he watched with cold satisfaction as the dark dragon seemed to shatter, and his black soul exploded into fire and dust. A gold wind swirled, but unlike other slain dragons the World-Eater’s soul did not seek out Jaskier and instead vanished into nothing.

There was a moment of calm, and Jaskier fell to his knees with a sob in his throat, his bow clattering to the ground.

It was over.

_It was over_.

==

Geralt watched the old dragon take to the skies as fire began tearing through the Nilfgaard camp, the soldiers running both towards it and toward the trees where the path to Kaer Morhen began. With a nod at Yennefer, the pair raced towards the camp. They were spotted quickly and their world became a flurry of steel, Signs, and Chaos.

Yennefer was startled to cross blades with none other than Fringilla Vigo.

“Still, Yennefer? Can you not see that Nilfgaard can offer you so much more? We have the power of _dragons_ on our side. Of other Spheres even.”

“You have dragons doomed to die at the hands of a man!” Yennefer spat, her short sword flashing. Fringilla raised a hand, no doubt ready to pull the same trick of dimeritium she used against Tissaia at Sodden, but Geralt’s _Aard_ knocked her and the dust away causing the mage to breathe it in herself. The witcher spun, barely catching the next sword rising to meet him. Yennefer stormed over to her once-sister. “It’s taken me some time, I’ll admit, but I’ve realized that power isn’t everything. And feeling powerful? That comes from protecting people, especially those you love. You’re a joke, Fringilla. And you’ll always be a joke.”

A dragon arced by overhead, and Geralt glanced up just long enough to see a figure sitting atop it.

Jaskier. No doubt seeking Alduin.

The witcher caught another blade and quick as a flash sunk his own through the soldier attacking.

And then, echoing through the sky, an eerie shout rolled in with a thick, deep fog.

“ ** _Ven mul riik_**.”

Alduin had arrived.

Buy time. That’s all they needed to do was buy time.

He and Yennefer shared a glance and steel, Signs, and Chaos swirled once more.

“Come on, Jask,” Geralt said, glancing toward the sky.

==

Serana’s ice spike and Vilkas’ greatsword pierced foes almost in tandem as the two caught the soldiers fleeing from the fire.

“Not bad, for a werewolf,” she grinned.

“I could say the same for you, vampire,” he replied. “Perhaps you should join the Companions.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” she grinned. “A bit too much honor for me.”

His Skyforge Steel sword cut through another black-armored soldier.

“Ha! I think you’re bleeding!”

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?”

Odahviing soared over them with a shout, another dragon shouting back and the skies were soon filled with thunder.

“Hell of an argument,” Serana quipped as her magic flew alongside Vilkas’ sword.

“Jaskier would tell you not to make light of the _Thu’um_.”

“I’m _not_. But it is interesting that dragons fight with words is all. Very sophisticated.”

“So is my steel.”

A dark, fierce roar brought with it a dense fog that made them both freeze.

“ ** _Ven mul riik_**!”

“The World-Eater,” Vilkas breathed.

“It’s up to Jaskier now.”

“Aye, all we have to do is make sure nothing distracts him.”

==

“You fight well,” Eskel remarked, wiping sweat from his brow in a pause between the fighting. The Nord woman glanced over at him with a frown.

“I am my Thane’s sword and shield.”

“No, I know, I just – you’re…good. With a sword,” he finished lamely.

“Well you too, I guess,” she replied. “You fight well enough, for an outlander.”

For a moment they looked each other, and then both their immense surprise, laughter bubbled up between them.

Lydia glanced around as the Nilfgaard forces retreated to their burning camp, dragons raging overhead.

“There’s something…wrong here.”

“I agree, something is coming.”

Their question was answered a moment later as the terrifying shout filled the sky, drowning out the sound of everything else.

“ ** _Ven mul riik_**!”

“Alduin, the World-Eater.”

Lydia’s eyes were wide as black wings soared overhead, and a thick fog settled over them.

“Then we’re just getting started,” Eskel intoned, adjusting his grip on his steel sword.

Lydia nodded and shouted.

“I’m not dying today! Not for you, not for anyone!”

==

“ ** _Ven mul rik_**.”

Vojak’s head turned toward the rumble, a dark voice echoing over the battlefield. With it came a heavy fog, and as it settled over the field Vojak knew it was no normal fog. He felt sluggish, slowed by it. Looking around at the villagers who had joined him and across the field to where Foltest’s soldiers also were looking around at the eerie mist he could tell they all felt it too.

The former Captain of the Guard squared his shoulders and raised his sword high once more. This was the true start of the battle, the true test of their mettle. They would distract Nilfgaard long enough for Jaskier to send the dark dragon away from here.

“For the _Dovahkiin_!” he shouted. The villagers, wide eyed and clearly afraid, lifted their weapons and echoed his cry, rushing through the fog to meet the dark armored Nilfgaardians head on. Arrows flew through the dense fog, and for a moment Vojak felt a despondent sense of helplessness lance through him, unexpected and sudden.

He shook himself out of the odd feeling. Jaskier had warned him about this and he had spread the warning as best he could.

“Alduin has a Shout,” the Dragonborn had explained, his voice tense as they spoke. “A snare to trap souls and devour them. It’s how he builds and maintains his power. It’s a heady, overwhelming feeling, it drains your hope and your energy alike. You cannot fall to it, Vojak. If we’re to succeed you cannot succumb to the fog.”

“I won’t,” Vojak promised fiercely. “I _won’t_.”

It was harder than he had thought though. The fog was all consuming, permeating. It spread around him, through him, and all he could do was watch with shame as Nilfgaard soldiers cut down the men and women who were ill prepared for this fight.

Why had he thought this was a good idea? Why had they ever thought they could win?

Through the fog he could hear the Shout of Alduin echo. The World-Eater. The dark dragon. The end of the world.

Hopeless. It would be so much easier to bow to his superiority.

Jaskier’s familiar _Thu’um_ echoed through the fog and Vojak narrowly missed a sword swinging at him as the Shout tore him from his despondency. A crash, the now strangely familiar crash of a dragon hitting the ground with the force of _Dragonrend_ , was audible.

The Dragonborn was meant to stop Alduin. The Dragonborn was here. The Dragonborn was fighting.

They still had hope.

Vojak’s blade pierced through black armor and he snarled, throwing rest of the fog’s strange spell off of himself. He shouted another rallying cry.

“Alduin _lies_! He does not own this world and he will not devour it! We will not bow!”

The villagers echoed the cry.

“We will not bow!”

==

“A _Dovahkiin_ , here?” The dark dragon asked as he swung low and hovered over Jaskier some distance away from the camp and the fighting there. The dragon Jaskier had used _Bend Will_ on had fled immediately after landing, his terror at Jaskier’s Thu’um visceral.

“ _Dovahkiin_ ,” the dragon had rumbled. “ _Krosis, thuri_.”

“Alduin, Eater of Worlds,” Jaskier greeted, his fingers wrapped tight around his bow. “This is not your world.”

“ _Daar lein los dii_! All worlds are mine! _Fen du hin daar lein_!”

“ _Nid_! You have no power here!”

Jaskier reached for the Scroll at his back.

“A _kel_? I think not, _Dovahkiin_! **_Jid so daan_**!”

Alduin’s shout brought fire and stone from the sky and Jaskier had to jump away to avoid getting hit. The dragon wasn’t going to make this any easier than Sovngarde. That was fine, Jaskier knew what to do.

” ** _Joor zah frul_**!”

“What words are these? What abomination do you speak, _Dovahkiin_? You should not know these words!”

“But I do,” Jaskier responded fiercely. “ _Zu’u laat Dovahkiin_.”

Unless Jaskier’s was imagining it, Alduin’s red eyes went wide at that declaration.

“ _Nid_! This is not the end! This is not my end!”

“ _Ni tiid_ ,” Jaskier agreed. “But your end is coming, Alduin!”

Jaskier attempted to pull the Elder Scroll again, but Alduin breathed fire, fierce and hot and furious toward him.

“ ** _Vol toor shul_**!”

Jaskier again dodged out of the way.

Fuck. He was going to need to damage the dragon if he was going to have enough time to use the Scroll. Jaskier readied his bow.

Alduin red-eyed glare turned to him.

“ _Hin kah fen kos bonaar_.”

Jaskier let his arrow fly.

Alduin was fast. Faster than Jaskier remembered from Sovngarde, or maybe it was the distraction of Felldir, Gormlaith, Hakon, and Tsun that made the dragon seem slower, but with all of that fury and attention on him it was all Jaskier could do to get an arrow in the great dragon’s hide before he was jumping out of the way of his claws and tail.

Whenever _Dragonrend_ wore off, Alduin would attempt to leap to the skies, to hide in the fog, but Jaskier only brought the dragon crashing down once more.

“ _Zu’u ni faas hi_!” Alduin roared.

“You do,” Jaskier snarled back. “Because you know _zu’u fen ni qiilaan_!”

” _Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan_!”

“ _Neh_!”

Alduin’s roar became a keening cry as he was brought crashing down once more, ebony arrows piercing his thick scales, his breath furious and heaving.

“ _Ruth strun bah_!”

Jaskier stood, stumbling from the constant Shouting, the pull of the bow, and the hits Alduin had landed on him. The dragon had paused, breathing heavily. He didn’t have much time.

He opened the Scroll. Lines of an ancient language, one that never may have existed at all, glowing upon it.

“Alduin!”

“ _Nid_!”

“Begone! By words with older bones than you I break your perch on this world and send you out! You are banished! I Shout you from this World until the Last!”

“Know this, _Dovahkiin_! If we meet again, _hin sil dii_! _Gro ulse_!”

“You are banished!”

Jaskier fell to his knees as the dark dragon disappeared into the swirling stream of time, on his way back to Skyrim where they would meet again.

The Dragonborn allowed himself a moment. A moment of relief, of joy, of triumph. Just a moment, before he pulled himself back up to his feet and moved into the fog.

Alduin was gone, but the fight wasn’t over.

It was time Nilfgaard saw the true power of a _dovah_.

“ ** _Lok vah koor_**!”

The fog began to lift, weak without Alduin there to maintain it against his Voice. Jaskier began making his was toward the Nilfgaard camp, the dragons overhead roaring in triumph once more.

==

The eerie fog that had settled in with Alduin’s arrival had bolstered the Nilfgaard forces, and it was everything the small group from Kaer Morhen could do to keep them distracted. They could hear Jaskier and Alduin’s _Thu’ums_ echoing across the battlefield, but with the fog heavy and constant it was impossible to discern who was winning. The other dragons were still locked in combat overhead, barely visible to them on the ground.

“Any sign of him?” Aela called out as her sword crashed against another soldier.

“Not yet!” Sabrina shouted back, firing another arrow from her bow.

“Damn it,” the huntress cursed, swinging her sword back around and slitting the soldier’s throat as she spun.

“Fringilla escaped!” Triss shouted from where she was holding a large tent of soldiers trapped with a vines that were tightening on the structure. “She made a portal and ran.”

“J’zargo has seen a man who looks like the leader, he is still commanding forces,” the strange Khajiit from Skyrim offered, fire and lighting crackling on his claws.

Jaskier’s Shout had emboldened their offense, but Shouts don’t last forever and it had faded surely by the time Alduin’s fog had settled on the field.

“We won’t hold much longer,” Karliah admitted daggers flashing as she spun back to back with Brynjolf in a dance nobody taught but they both seemed to know. “Their numbers are simply too great.”

“Retreat then,” Vesemir called, steel and silver both dripping blood. “That was always the plan. To buy enough time. We’ve done all we can.”

“There’s no escaping,” Lamber yelled back, kicking away a soldier with a heavy boot. “They’ll just pursue us up the trail.”

“Lambert is right,” Geralt agreed. “We have to keep holding their attention.”

A crack of thunder interrupted the fighting.

“ ** _Lok vah koor_**!”

Exhausted, worn-out, little left to give, the Shout made everyone pause to see whose _Thu’um_ had triumphed and what effect it would have.

Geralt felt a rush of pride and relief run through him as the fog began to clear.

That Shout was Jaskier’s.

_“ **Zulnehdir**_.”

==

Jaskier knew the plan was for the group to consolidate near the trail leading up to Kaer Morhen. If they couldn’t continue the diversion, they were to use the trees for cover and get any injured as far as from the fight as possible. He had hoped his fight with Alduin would be well away from it, and his wish had been granted, but now, _now_ he was exhausted and trying to rejoin the others as quickly as he could.

He almost cried in relief when he heard the rumble of his name echoing deep in his soul. He hadn’t followed the pull yet, hadn’t seen what else was there, but now, now he felt the call and he let his eyes slip closed as he gripped it tight and let himself answer the Shout.

“Holy fuck, Jaskier.”

Jaskier opened his eyes to find himself facing a battalion of Nilfgaard soldiers, swords and bows raised and quivering; their faces as they stared at him were a mix of shock, awe and terror.

He felt a weight and strength surrounding him, not unlike the armor called with _Dragon Aspect_ , but _more_ somehow. _Dragon Aspect_ always felt like he was donning strange armor and borrowing it temporarily. This felt like being wrapped up in a familiar winter cloak. Like a hug from an old friend. Like a favorite warm blanket. A weight shifted on his back and Jaskier’s eyes darted over at the movement.

Oh. _Oh_.

He looked at the glowing lines of bone and membrane and flexed and sure enough the summoned wings moved at his command.

His thoughts went to a statement Odahviing had made once before.

“ _The freedom of the sky beckons, are you ready to see it as only a dovah can? But I warn you, once you’ve flown the skies of Keizaal_ , _your envy of the dov will only increase_.”

Jaskier took a step forward, his ghostly wings unfurled wide.

“Alduin is gone, his brothers with him. _Zu’u laat Dovahkiin, Zu’u Thu’um los hin daan_ **. _Krii lun aus_**!”

He was pretty sure he heard Lambert mutter “Bless you” somewhere behind him.

The soldiers didn’t need to understand his words to feel the weight of them, this strange man who appeared with glowing _dragon wings_ and shouted with a Voice of thunder. The words ripped through them, and they could feel their strength flee at the sound. There was a clatter as weapons were dropped, and some of the soldiers even fell to the ground. A roar overhead had several more cowering.

Durnehviir and Odahviing were still making sweeps of the camp, breathing fire as they went, but Paarthurnax set himself down beside Jaskier, roaring his pleasure at Alduin’s defeat.

“Our _thuri_ has spoken, and your allies have abandoned you.”

The men were still looking in greater fear at Jaskier than at Paarthurnax.

He took another step toward them, his ghostly, shining wings flaring out once more.

“ ** _Ru_**.”

The remaining men didn’t need any further motivation, weapons dropping left and right as they ran. Those who had fallen to the ground scrambled for purchase to stand and retreat.

They could hear the order being sounded through the remainder of the camp.

“Retreat! Run!”

“We are routed, fall back!”

As a calm settled over the field, Serana stepped forward.

“Jaskier?”

The Dragonborn didn’t turn around.

“Serana?”

“Yeah?”

“Can someone catch me?”

“What?”

The glow of the Shout faded, the wings vanishing in an instant, and whatever strength had been holding Jaskier up fled as he crumpled to the ground in exhaustion.

Geralt had dove for him and caught him before he hit the hard earth below, lowering him gently even as his golden eyes were wide and searching for injuries.

Jaskier was batting him away.

“-fine, ‘m _fine_. Just tired.”

“It’s okay, Jas. You can rest now.”

“Oh. Good.”

Jaskier let the darkness swallow him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Daan kiir_ : Destiny child  
>  _Vahzah_ : True  
>  _Daan_ : Destiny  
>  _Keizaal_ : Skyrim  
>  _Zeymah_ : Brother  
>  _Kor_ : Mages  
>  _Tafiir_ : Thieves  
>  _Fahdon_ : Friend  
>  _Sos kiir_ : Blood child  
>  _Mal gein_ : Little one  
>  _Tiid nu_ : It's time (literally, time now)  
>  _Odahviing_ : Literally, snow hunter wing. Odahviing's name as a shout to call him.  
>  _Durnehviir_ : Literally, curse never ending. Durnehviir's name as a shout to call him.  
>  _Drem yol lok, fahdon_ : Peace fire sky, allies. (Greetings, allies)  
>  _Thuri_ : Master  
>  _Qahnaarin_ : Vanquisher  
>  _Mid vur shaan_ : Literally, loyal valor inspire. Battle Fury, a shout that is basically Elemental Fury for your allies.  
>  _Nahlot Thu'umii_ : Silence his Shout  
>  _Gol hah dov_ : Literally, earth mind dragon. Bend Will, a shout that allows you to control man, beast, and dragon.  
>  _Ninvahgol_ : Literally, strike spring earth. A dragon.  
>  _Odfonax_ : Literally, snow frost cruelty. A dragon.  
>  _Kulvedviin_ : Literally, son black shine. A dragon.  
>  _Boksilthaarn_ : Literally, age time obedient. A dragon.  
>  _Aarkreltuz_ : Literally, guide dominate blade. A dragon.  
>  _Silduulviir_ : Literally, soul devour dying. A dragon.  
>  _Ven mul rik_ : Literally, wind strong gale. Soul Fog, a shout used by Alduin that is also a snare for souls.  
>  _Yol toor shul_ : Literally, fire inferno sun. Fire Breath.  
>  _Joor zah frul_ : Literally, mortal finite temporary. Dragonrend.  
>  _Dovahkiin! Kel drey ni viik_ : Dragonborn! The Elder Scroll didn't defeat me.  
>  _Daar lein los dii_ : This world is mine.  
>  _Hin sil dii! Gro ulse!_ : Your soul is mine. Bound forever.  
>  _Meyye! Tahrodiis ganne! Him hinde pah liiv! Zu'u hin daan_ : Fools! Treacherous slaves! Your hopes are all withered! I am your doom!  
>  _Fus ro dah_ : Literally, force balance push. Unrelenting Force.  
>  _Nu hin sil dii, gro ulse! Zu'u unslaad! Zu'u nis oblaan_ : Now your soul is mine, bound forever. I am eternally! I cannot end!  
>  _Krosis, thuri_ : Sorry, master  
>  _Fen du hin daar lein_ : I will devour your world.  
>  _Kel_ : Elder Scroll  
>  _Jiid so daan_ : Literally, moon sorrow doom. Alduin's shout that summons meteors.  
>  _Nid_ : No  
>  _Nii tiid_ : Not yet  
>  _Vol toor shul_ : Literally, horror inferno sun. Alduin's unique Fire Breath shout.  
>  _Hi kah fen kos bonaar_ : Your pride will be humbled.   
> _Zu'u ni faas hi_ : I do not fear you.  
>  _Zu'u fen ni qiilaan_ : I will not bow  
>  _Nust wo ni qiilaan fen kos duaan_ : Those who do not bow will be devoured  
>  _Neh_ : Never  
>  _Ruth strun bah_ : Literally, rage storm wrath. A shout-like phrase expressing anger and hate.  
>  _Lok vah koor_ : Literally, sky spring summer. Clear Skies, a shout that clears fog and weather.  
>  _Zu'u laat Dovahkiin_ : I am the Last Dragonborn  
>  _Zu'u Thu'um los hin daan_ : My Voice is your doom  
>  _Krii lun aus_ : Literally, kill leach suffer. Marked for Death, a shout which permanently weakens an opponent's lifeforce and armor.  
>  _Ru_ : Run  
>  _Werid_ : Praise (used here as excellent or good) 
> 
> Yes, yes, I pulled in Aiden, Coën, and Letho and Istredd and did fuck all with them. I just needed to balance who I was pulling in from Skyrim.
> 
> Fun fact, if you tell Tsun you're a Nightingale or the Listener he is super disappointed in your life choices.
> 
> One more to go.


	12. OBLAAN (Ending)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been fun. :)

Jaskier woke slowly, blinking awake into a room that was familiar. The room he’d been staying in at Kaer Morhen. He reached up a hand to rub at his eyes and look around. There was a small fire crackling in the hearth, but the window was also cracked open a smidge letting in a cool breeze and the cheerful chirping of spring birds. The sun streaming in was in beaming rays of pink and gold as the sun slipped beneath the horizon. On a chair nearby was his Nightingale armor, clean and neatly draped over the back of it. A quick glance beneath the blanket confirmed he was in soft trousers, his injuries cleaned and bandaged. His sword, dagger, and bow were all leaning on a wall opposite the bed. On the small table next to him was a tankard of what appeared to be water and a plate of bread and cheese. He polished off both before dressing, not in his usual Nightingale attire, but the more casual black and gray he wore in towns and villages he was visiting as a civilian.

He opened the door and peeked out, but the hall was empty. With silent steps he followed the winding halls down to the main room. He could hear loud, cheerful chatter on the other side. He smiled at the thought that this was probably the most active Kaer Morhen had been in decades, and he idly wondered if Vesemir was annoyed yet or if he appreciated the change.

He pushed open the door and the din immediately silenced.

Jaskier looked around the myriad of faces staring back at him.

The strange staring contest lasted nearly a full minute before Vilkas stood up and raised his own tankard of ale.

“ _Dovahkiin_!”

That seemed to set everyone else off, as they stood and toasted his triumph and cheered loudly as he stepped into the room fully, unable to stop the smile spreading across his face. Even Vesemir raised his ale with a nod and small smile.

Ciri tackled him in a hug.

“Jaskier! You’re okay! I was so worried when they brought you back, there were a few other scrapes but you were out cold and-”

“Shh, it’s alright. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’d forgotten how immense Alduin’s power is and to keep him pinned long enough to send him away took more out of me than I expected.” He glanced around the room as the cheering returned to the excited conversations. “How long was I out?”

“ _Forever_ ,” Ciri lamented.

“Since yesterday,” Yennefer corrected, walking over and offering a smile. “You certainly look better.”

“Yennefer.”

“Jaskier. The wings were new.”

“That was completely, entirely, undoubtedly Geralt’s fault,” he replied, gesturing at the witcher who had hurried over.

“ _Wings_?!” Ciri shouted looking between them.

“No, _no_. I do not have wings. Well I did, sort of. The Shout did it. It calls to me as _dovah_ , so I came as _dovah_.”

“Can you fly?” Her excitement was undiminished.

Jaskier’s grin had even Yennefer leaning back.

“I certainly intend to find out.”

“Jaskier!” Aela hollered. “Dragonslayer!”

“Aela, we are not starting this again!” He shouted back, with a roll of his eyes.

“It’s too late, they already taught us the damned song,” Geralt rumbled.

“No-” Jaskier tried to interrupt, but was cut off as Brynjolf started belting out the opening lyrics, his arm slung around Lambert who was singing just as loudly. And just as badly.

“ _Alduin’s wings, they did darken the sky_.”

Jaskier groaned, reaching a hand up to rub at his forehead, but the grin on his face told everyone he wasn’t all that upset.

A tankard of ale was shoved into his hand and he looked up startled to see the Rectoress of Aretuza offering him a small smile.

“Someday, I’d love to hear your stories and songs of Skyrim,” she said simply, before walking away.

Jaskier looked toward Yennefer.

“Did she just?”

“She did.”

“Huh.”

With Jaskier awake and well, the joy of their triumph over Alduin and Nilfgaard could be properly celebrated. Ale and mead flowed freely and a strong camaraderie was shared between the residents of Skyrim and the Continent. Jaskier found himself pulled into a dozen different conversations, his drink always full and he felt as though his face would ache for days over the fact he simply couldn’t stop smiling.

It had taken little persuading from Serana for him to retrieve his lute and sing; songs from Skyrim that had the not-quite-strangers all singing along, and songs from the Continent that caused raucous laughter.

Geralt watched it all and glanced at Ciri to see her smiling softly.

“Hey,” he nudged her gently and her bright green eyes darted over to him. “What are you thinking?”

She smiled and shook her head.

“If this is what it’s like to let destiny happen, maybe I needn’t be so afraid of mine.”

Geralt thought back to his recent conversations with Jaskier. How the bard always knew he would face Alduin, but never let that stop him from finding and living a life in Skyrim.

Ciri was thinking on her conversation with Paarthurnax, how the dragon had told her that Jaskier was helped by so many on his way to his destiny. Those same people who come through time and space to help again in his time of need.

“Hmm,” he replied, taking a drink of the ale in his hand.

She laughed at him in response, then tugged him out their corner to join the celebration.

==

It was almost anti-climactic, the departure of the heroes called from Skyrim. They’d gathered in the courtyard of the keep, the sun beaming down and spring bringing fair weather to the Blue Mountains.

Jaskier had taken the time to speak with each of them, to thank them for their help, for crossing through time for him.

He was teased, hugged, and punched in good measure by each of them.

They had taken time to speak with their new friends, to assure them that they were only a Shout away if ever needed. A standing invitation to find them in Skyrim, if they ever made it to their Sphere.

Perhaps, oddly enough, nobody said goodbye.

There were plenty of “until next time” and “see you later” comments, but not a single goodbye.

“The Companions will continue to prove honor in Skyrim, Harbinger. And we’ll await your return.”

“There will always be more to learn to be a great mage, and a great Arch-Mage, yes? J’zargo will teach you next time.”

“The Guild will be flowing with more gold than you can imagine lad. But we’ll keep a few jobs ready for you.”

They gathered together, standing tall and proud and Jaskier smiled at each one before he took a breath in.

“ ** _Daal hin gol_**.”

And in an echoing rumble of thunder, they were gone.

The sorceresses and Istredd created portals for themselves and the additional witchers after saying their farewells, and with spring firmly in the air Lambert and Eskel had packed up their gear to head down the mountains to return to the Path for the season.

“See you next winter, Dragonborn?” Lambert had asked as he finished loading the saddlebags.

“Perhaps. Maybe by then you’ll be able to do more with _Fus_ than just spray spit.”

Lambert had cursed and chased the laughing Dragonborn around the courtyard for that.

“I can’t say these were the best circumstances to have met you,” Eskel said as he stood near the gate. “But I am glad. I’d be honored to fight by your side again.”

Jaskier had smiled softly at him.

“You know, you’d like Skyrim, Eskel.”

The witcher smiled in return and looked up at Kaer Morhen.

“My place and my Path is here,” he looked back at Jaskier. “But Vilkas did say the Harbinger of the Companions might have a place for me if I ever made it there.”

Jaskier laughed and agreed.

Geralt and Yennefer weren’t quite ready to leave yet, and so it was a few days later when Jaskier found Ciri sitting outside going through forms with a short sword.

“Oh, hello, Jaskier!” She said brightly when she saw him. She glanced around to see if anyone else was around. “Have you been there long?”

He grinned.

“Long enough to hear you cursing about Lambert. I’m telling him what you said.”

She flushed red, but grinned.

“Please tell me you can teach me to walk like you do.”

He pressed a finger to his lips and winked and her grin widened.

He would, and it would be their secret.

She lowered the sword with a sigh.

“What are you thinking about, cub?”

She placed the sword on the nearest rack and moved to sit beside him, looking up at the sky as the stars began to appear.

“Prophecies, I guess,” she looked over to him. “What is it like to have fulfilled yours? You’re free to do anything now, but do you feel as though you have no direction? What are you even going to do? Where will you go?”

Jaskier ducked his head, then shook it slowly before looking at her.

“One of the first things Paarthurnax told me after we met is that prophecy is a weak guide. Our lives may be bound to it, but we are not dictated by it. We make our own path and define what our fate means, for better or for worse.

“Alduin is eternal. I did not defeat him here, merely sent him away, and I doubt he truly died in Sovngarde. I am tied to him, and yet.”

He looked at her smiled.

“And yet, I am here, alive and he is not. Which means that I am not tied to him. My destiny may be fulfilled, it might not. I am not going to stop living either way.”

He stood up and pulled her up with him.

“Now, why don’t you show me if your whisper pushes aside all in its path yet.”

She squared her shoulders and faced him, taking a deep breath.

“ ** _Fus_**!” He slid back several feet, and her eyes were wide and excited when his gaze met hers.

His grin was almost frightening.

“ _Werid._ ”

==

Geralt found him in his preferred spot, in the tower with the destroyed wall open to the sky.

It was late, the moon hanging high overhead and the witcher hadn’t been able to sleep nor meditate. He had knocked on Jaskier’s door only to find the room empty and sought the other man out here.

He wasn’t meditating, nor was he plucking at his lute. He was simply sitting in the empty room, looking up at the sky.

Geralt stepped into the room and Jaskier turned his head to look at him.

“Geralt.”

“Jaskier.”

The witcher walked over and sat down beside his old friend, the silence comfortable between them in a way it hadn’t been in a long time.

“What are you planning to do next?” Geralt finally rumbled.

Jaskier shook his head, braids swaying. Geralt’s sharp eyes caught the addition of a new braid. Four pulled back, two still hanging by his face.

Curious.

“For the first time in a long time, I don’t know,” Jaskier admittedly, equally soft in tone.

“Hmm.”

“I assume you’re headed out soon?”

“We’re still working that out. Nilfgaard was close, far too close. And even though we chased them away, I fear what would happen if they were to cut us off from Kaer Morhen, even with Yennefer.”

“It wouldn’t be so bad to stay here and train Ciri for the year. It’s your home, isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.”

Jaskier turned sharply toward him when Geralt admitted that.

“What? But you-”

“Kaer Morhen is safe and familiar, but it isn’t home. Vesemir, Lambert, and Eskel. They’re home. Yennefer and Cirilla are my home,” his golden gaze met Jaskier’s bright blue. “You. You’re part of my home too.”

Jaskier glanced away with a frown and Geralt felt himself echo it.

“What are you planning to do next, Jaskier?” He asked again.

“Originally,” Jaskier hesitated. “Originally when I came back I figured after everything was said and done I’d go back to Skyrim. I hadn’t planned to run into your brothers, or to see you with Borch.

“But then I met Vojak and we started traveling together and I started thinking perhaps that was what I would do when Alduin was gone.

“And now we’re here. And I’m- I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

“Where is your home, Jaskier?”

Because for some reason, Geralt needed to know. He needed to know where Jaskier was going to be. He had his Name, the Shout to call him, but-

“Home, I have found, is where I find my happiness. Oxenfurt is home. The road is my home. Skyrim is my home,” those bright eyes turned to him. “And so are you and Ciri.” He gave a dramatic sigh. “And Yennefer, I suppose.”

Geralt huffed a laugh.

“You just like that you can give her a run for her money in magic now.”

Jaskier’s grin was all teeth in response, but he didn’t deny it.

==

“You’re what?”

“Leaving,” Jaskier shook his head, the braids by his face swaying with the motion. “I – it’s Alduin.”

“But you won, Harbinger. You defeated the dark dragon. Skyrim is free,” Farkas’ expression was one of confusion.

“Skyrim is, but he- before he was here he was somewhere else. And the things he said. I’ve fought him before. Again. I’m not sure, but I,” Jaskier took a breath to get his tumultuous emotions under control and he squared his shoulders, looking at each member of the Circle in turn.

“The Companions have no leader, no master. If you name a new Harbinger, I will not fault you. Look after yourselves and each other. Show Skyrim Ysgramor’s honor lives on in you.”

The three looked at each other and it was Aela who nodded and spoke first.

“For as long as we know you’re alive, you will remain our Harbinger. And we will prove honor in your stead.”

He left them to break the news to the rest of the Companions and took off towards Breezehome.

“My Thane, I-”

“Lydia, Whiterun is better off with you here. Protect it as you have protected me.”

“What good is a sword and shield if you leave them at home?”

“What good is a home if there’s no sword to protect it?” he countered.

She frowned, but nodded.

“Then as you command, I will protect Whiterun and your home with my life.”

“I would rather you protect your life over my home, but I already know I’m going to lose that argument.”

“Every time, my Thane.”

She walked with him to the gates, where he would Shout to Winterhold.

“Honor to you my Thane, wherever your travels may take you.”

“Honor to you, Lydia. May your steel be ever sharp.”

He really should have expected how hard it was going to be to leave Whiterun, not knowing if he would ever see it again, he really should have.

And yet, the tears burned hotly in his eyes and he stepped away. From the Companions, who’d been his first friends and family in Skyrim. From Lydia who taught him what it meant to be a true Son of Skyrim. From home.

Outside the gate he turned his head just enough to see Lydia standing by the wall, looking proud and strong as the day they met.

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

The sight of the College rose over him.

He sought out the old Master Wizard.

“Yes, I had wondered, but no matter! It is not unusual for the Arch-Mage to travel in the pursuit of knowledge.”

“This is a little different than that, Tolfdir.”

“Of course it is, my boy,” the old Nord smiled sadly at him. “But you _are_ Arch-Mage and until we know for certain you won’t return, we will name no other.”

“But-”

“Besides, between you and me, who would we choose? Certainly not I. Colette?”

Colette, always so defensive about the legitimacy of Restoration.

“Drevis?”

The Dunmer Illusionist, convinced he was invisible.

“Phinis?”

A Necromancer, leading the College. As if it needed more of a bad reputation.

“I can see you understand why it’s best to leave you in charge, if in name only,” he received a gentle squeeze to his shoulder. “Faralda will help keep things in order, and the Apprentices you befriended are an eager bunch. The College will be in good hands while you’re away.”

“Thank you, Tolfdir.”

“I believe I should be thank you, Dragonborn. You gave me a great honor by allowing me to be your guide when you came to the College, and you have saved us all in more ways than one.”

Jaskier reached up and grasped the hand on his shoulder before tugging away and exiting the Hall of Elements, and making his way back across the bridge and through the small town of Winterhold.

Almost done. But there were still a few people who needed to hear this from him.

His Shout echoed on the mountains.

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

And upon the water of Lake Honrich in Riften.

He made his way to the Riften Cemetery, to the grave hiding the entrance to the Guild. The Cistern was unusually quiet, save for the two he had asked to meet him.

“Karliah, Brynjolf.”

“Jaskier, you seem troubled.”

“Aye, lad. You know if you need us, we have your back.”

“Not in this, but I do need you to listen.”

He explained the problem of Alduin’s words, how he had been sent from Skyrim through time those short years ago, and how it was now Jaskier’s duty to return him to Skyrim for their fight.

“I’m not sure I understand, but I know one thing. Whatever you need from, me, consider it done. But as far as I see it, the title of Guild Master is yours, no matter where you are.”

“Absolutely. As is your status as Nightingale. Nocturnal’s shadows will hide you wherever you are.”

“Gods damn it,” Jaskier bit back the urge to cry again.

“Oh, none of that now, lad. You’ve more honor in you than any man I’ve ever met, and the Guild is better off because of it.”

“One thing, Brynjolf. Just one.”

“Name it.”

“Break free of Maven’s influence,” he whispered lowly into the man’s ear. “I don’t trust her, I want the Guild free of her.”

Brynjolf nodded, his expression serious.

“I won’t deny it’s a tough ask, Jaskier. But I’ll do it. Whatever it takes. You’ve made the Guild powerful again, and I won’t let you down.”

“I know. I know you won’t.”

“Until we meet again, Nightingale,” Karliah offered.

Jaskier slipped out of the Cistern as silently as he entered.

Thunder shook the cemetery. One more stop.

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

Jaskier had always found the Rift to be rather beautiful. Brighter and more colorful than much of Skyrim and painted in shades of green and gold. Dayspring Canyon and the road to Fort Dawnguard only seemed to amplify that beauty with its craggy walls and waterfalls accenting the colorful landscape. The guards on the trail greeted him warmly as he made for the large stone fortress.

Jaskier had barely stepped into the foyer of the building when the familiar voice he was searching for called out.

“There you are, nothing like keeping me waiting,” Serana stood up from the bench she was waiting on, but frowned when she caught sight of his face. “Jas? Jaskier what’s wrong?”

“Serana,” he could no longer hold in the tears that had been threatening to break since Whiterun and he choked out the story.

“You’re leaving,” she surmised as they walked the Canyon together. “To another world.”

“Another time, another place. Wherever Alduin is, I have to go and send him _back_. Send him here.”

“So you can fight him. Which you’ve already done,” her brow furrowed.

“Paarthurnax said not to think on it too much.”

“Well, if the old dragon said so,” she shrugged. “I’m coming with you.”

“What? No, Serana you can’t, I-”

“Not to wherever you’re going. Do you even know where you’re going?”

Jaskier hesitated.

“Paarthurnax thinks, I’m inclined to agree, that Alduin got sent to my home. To the Continent. That’s why I was pulled here from there to begin with.”

“Because you’re tied to Alduin,” she deduced. “Well, I would go with you, if you wanted me to, but I meant to The Throat of the World. To Paarthrunax. He’s the one who’s going to send you, isn’t he?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Great, you lead, I’ll follow. Unless you think I’m climbing those 7,000 steps to the top, in which case, no thank you.”

Jaskier laughed, tears still staining his face even as she stepped closer.

“Ready?”

“Go for it, Dragonborn.”

“ ** _Het til nu_**.”

Paarthurnax was in his usual spot on the Word Wall as they arrived.

“ _Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin_. Are you ready?”

Jaskier nodded, not trusting his voice.

He checked his equipment one last time. His bow and quiver, his sword and dagger, the Elder Scroll. A stock of potions and filled soul gems. Provisions for a few days. Civilian clothing.

He’d left his coin stashed around his various homes, Septims being a little too foreign to be worthwhile wherever he landed.

“Jaskier,” Serana called, stepping close to him. “If this- if this is goodbye, then I want to say thank you. For saving me. For freeing me. For being my friend.”

She reached up and tugged him down to place a small, chaste kiss on his lips before pulling back and offering him a smile.

“And if this isn’t goodbye, then I look forward to seeing you again.”

“Serana. I’m glad to have met you.”

She moved away and Paarthurnax looked down at him.

“ _Dovahkiin_. Good luck on your journey.”

Jaskier braced himself as the great dragon breathed.

“ ** _Daal hin gol_**.”

==

The idea, when it came to him, seemed so simple and he wondered why he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Jaskier took his time dressing in his dusk-colored Nightingale armor, leaving the hood down and cowl around his neck. His sword and dagger were sheathed at his side, his bow and quiver at his back. He slid silently through the hall of Kaer Morhen, having already bid Vesemir farewell and out into the courtyard where Yennefer and Geralt _still_ hadn’t decided what to do.

Either way, they were leaving Kaer Morhen today.

“Even Tissaia agreed Aretuza is a bad idea. The Brotherhood is still split, with many who couldn’t care less if the Continent burns so long as they’re left alone.”

“So nowhere is safe, we’ve dealt with it before,” the youngest interrupted, though it was obvious this argument had already been going in circles.

“Not like this. Not where they could cut us off from Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier let them go at it for a few moments before clearing his throat.

“Jaskier!” Ciri’s delight was always infectious.

“I had an idea, if you’d like.”

“Can’t be anything worse than what we’ve already suggested, bard,” Yennefer retorted, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jaskier stepped toward them, confidence and strength echoed in every stride. He stopped right nearby, completing their little circle.

“I was wondering if you would like to see Skyrim for a while?”

The looks he received in response, he would realize later, were hysterical. He hadn’t realized Yennefer or Geralt were capable of such wide-eyed looks anymore.

The sorceress glanced at Geralt and back at him.

“Is that even possible?”

Jaskier nodded.

“And we’d be able to get back?” Geralt asked.

“In time for winter even,” Jaskier confirmed with a shrug. “The time difference is strange, but time passes the same.”

“Oh, Geralt, Yennefer, can we? It would be brilliant, we could see all the places Jaskier’s been, like Blackreach and Bleak Falls Barrow and Whiterun. Yennefer could go the College, and Geralt could take jobs for the Companions and the Jarls and-”

“Breathe, _daan kiir_ ,” Jaskier interrupted.

“What about Roach?” Geralt challenged.

“She might not enjoy Skyrim, but like I said we can be back for winter.”

“Hmm,” Geralt’s gaze studied him for a minute, before looking at Yennefer. Whatever silent conversation they had was lost on Jaskier. “One minute.”

Geralt disappeared into the keep, and Yennefer looked at Jaskier.

“Are you sure about this? We’ll be safe there?”

“Skyrim still isn’t exactly what I would call safe, and there’s still a war going on. The difference is that nobody is actively searching for any of you there.”

“Are they searching for you?” She asked, one meticulous eyebrow raised in question.

“I’ve made more than one name for myself in Skyrim, Yennefer,” he retorted, one hand running over his braids as if to prove his point.

“I was wondering about that,” Geralt cut in, rejoining them. “You have a new one.”

Ciri beamed widely.

“That’s from me!”

“From you?” Yennefer echoed looked at her.

“Yeah, Jaskier is family. You said so yourself Geralt, that he was home as much as Yennefer and I were. So I asked if I could give him a braid to show that.”

Jaskier lamented the fact that his hood and cowl were down and doing nothing to hide his furious blush.

“Vesemir has agreed to take care of Roach until winter,” Geralt said abruptly, changing the subject, his voice rougher than it had been a moment ago. “We’re ready to go whenever you are.”

“Ready to go?” Jaskier looked at him in confusion.

“To Skyrim,” the witcher clarified.

“To- oh. _Oh_. Right. You have everything?”

His question was met with rolled eyes and gestures at traveling packs and sheathed swords.

“All right then. Step close. This will feel a little strange.”

“Strange?”

Yennefer’s question went unanswered as she felt her entire soul _shake_ with the power of the Shout. The world went momentarily dark with it.

Upon clearing, the first thing she noticed was she was standing in a few inches of snow, and a cold wind was blowing her hair.

She looked over at Ciri, who was already sprinting away, and Geralt who was looking around, frantically, to Jaskier, whose eyes were closed, his head tilted back and enjoying the cool breeze, a small smile curling his lips.

“Geralt! Yen! Come look!”

The witcher and the sorceress followed the princess to the edge of the mountain summit, where the sun shining in clear blue skies gave them a vast view of a foreign world, all stretched out beneath them. Snow covered mountains far in the distance and dotting the plains. A city of walls guarded over by a tall keep. High arches of dark, carved stone and a small village nestled in its shadow along the river.

“Welcome to Skyrim,” Jaskier said softly behind them.

Through the sky, the Shout echoed like thunder.

“ ** _Dov tiid nu_**.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Daal hin gol_ : Literally, return (to) your land.  
>  _Het til nu_ : Literally, here there now  
>  _Dov tiid nu_ : Literally, dragon time now
> 
> That's it, that's the story. It's not perfect, but it's finished. Thanks for reading. :)


End file.
